


Kill The Lights

by patentpending



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Noir, Femme Fatale Roman Sanders, Multi, Murder Mystery, Private Eye Logan Sanders, They're in love but whoops Roman might have done a murder, Whodunnit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2019-08-25 12:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patentpending/pseuds/patentpending
Summary: New York, 1946“At their smallest components, humans are indistinguishable from forest fires.”  Logan Sul swirled his glass of scotch around idly, watching the ice clink together.  “All it takes is the smallest spark to set them off.”  He casually took a sip, amber eyes piercing each member of the assembled group.Virgil Avery, the paranoid security guard.Patton Parker, the far too-cheerful nightclub owner.Roman Torres, the high-strung star.Viper Salem, the obsessive widow.Dorian Arya, the mysterious ex-business partner“Any singular person is more than capable of being a murderer.”  He set his glass down on the side table, dabbing at his mouth with his handkerchief.  He turned back to the group and smiled viciously, a hunter with his sights set on prey.  “And one of you is.”





	1. Don't Trust Hot People

**Author's Note:**

> TWs:  
> Character held at gunpoint  
> Character poisoned  
> Alcohol

_New York, 1946._

“Please, Mr. Fontane, you're embarrassing yourself.”  Logan Sul reclined in his chair, staring down his adversary.  “The jade elephant is damning evidence. I’ve informed the police of your little underground gambling ring, and they’ll be here to arrest you presently.  This endeavor is over.”

The conman snarled, words dripping with his thick New Yorker accent.  “And who’s going to stop me from walkin’ outta here right now?”

Logan shrugged casually.  “I will.”

A sharp snap sounded through the air, and Mr. Fontane lifted a gun - cocked and ready - out from inside of his suit coat.  “Will you now?” He aimed it directly at Logan’s head.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Mr. Fontane,”  Logan sighed, sounding almost bored. He let his eyes drift around the conman’s opulent study, wandering over the man himself sitting across the table with wild eyes and trembling hands, the lavish bookcases filled with dusty tomes, the thick persian rugs.  

“You’re a common crook, not a murderer.”  Logan arched an eyebrow at the other man. “To kill a man in cold blood takes a certain ruthlessness; a brokenness of the soul; a willingness to live with whatever consequences will follow.  I’m afraid I can’t see you doing that.”

Mr. Fontane fired.

The bullet embedded itself in the backing of Logan’s armchair.  Two inches to the left and he would be dead.

Logan eyed the bullet hole.  “Then again, I could be wrong.”

“I missed on purpose,”  The conman snarled. “I don’t like these mind games you’re so fond of, Mr. Sul.”

“Then perhaps instead of a game” - the private eye suddenly rose, ignoring the trailing of the gun as he sauntered over to an ornate crystal platter, taking two glasses and a bottle of sherry - “You will be amenable to a little gamble.”  He set them down on the dark mahogany table.

The other man’s eyes gleamed.  “A gamble, you say?”

A small smile flickered at the corner of Logan’s mouth.  “I thought that might draw your attention.”

He sat down cooly, reaching into his pocket, stilling when Mr. Fontane aimed the gun again.  “It’s quite alright; I’m unarmed.” He pulled out a small tube, carefully unscrewing the top to reveal a white powder inside.  He held it out. “Smell this, but do not touch.”

The gambler reached out and sniffed.  “I don’t smell anything.”

Logan deftly took it back.  “That’s because I have in here odorless, tasteless, colorless thallium salt.  One singular teaspoon, to be precise. That’s enough to kill thirty-four men.”  He smiled. “Or one man in a matter of minutes.”

Mr. Fontane narrowed his eyes.  “What exactly are you proposing, Sul?”

Logan pointedly ignored the lack of a ‘mister’.  “As I said: a gamble.” He poured the sherry into the crystal glasses then turned around, obstructing the conman’s view.  A soft clink rang out as Logan tapped the salt container. He turned back around, placing the goblets on the table at equal distances from the other man.  “Choose your cup, and we’ll both drink.”

Mr. Fontane laughed.  “You must think me to be a mad man.”

“Quite the opposite actually,”  Logan countered, analyzing him through sharp amber eyes.  “I think you’re a man of odds and numbers.” He waved a hand at the glasses.  “I present to you a fifty-fifty shot of getting out of here a free man. It’s the gamble of a lifetime for the gambler of a lifetime.”

The other man hesitated, bloodshot eyes darting from the glasses to the private detective’s face, trying to discern what the trick was.

Logan raised his hands in pseudo-surrender.  “No tricks here, Mr. Fontane. You have an equal chance of choosing the right or the wrong glass.  You have a fifty percent chance of walking away with the police clueless, now that their favorite consultant is dead.”

The gambler wavered, index finger tapping against the trigger.  Finally, he pocketed it. “Alright, Mr. Sul, I’ll take that wager.”

Logan smiled, suddenly a gentleman in every aspect of the word.  “Excellent.” He nodded at the glasses. “The choice is yours.”

The gambler vacillated between the two options, first reaching for the glass on the left, then quickly switching to the one on the right, then backtracking to the left once more.  Logan noted with interest the thin sheen of sweat building on his brow. Finally, Mr. Fontane wrapped his fingers - loaded with a variety of extravagant rings - around the rightmost glass.

Logan duly plucked up the leftward glass.  “To your health,” He said, raising the cup in a toast.

Mr. Fontane snorted and downed his sherry.  “To my health indeed.”

Logan tilted his head back and imbibed until his cup was empty.  A quick glance told him that Mr. Fontane had done the same.

“Now what?”  The gambler said, placing down his glass.

“Now we wait.”  Logan glanced at his watch.  “Should be any moment now.”

Mr. Fontane frowned.  “I thought you said it takes a few minu-”  The rest of his sentence was cut off as he suddenly felt his throat closing.  He fell to the ground, choking.

Logan rose and looked down at the convulsing body dispassionately.  “Yes,” He agreed. “It does.”

He stepped over the body and strolled out of the french doors leading outside.  “It’s quite alright,” He called to the police assembled outside.

“Mr. Sul,”  A police woman with dusky brown skin and a thick braid that could've been used for hangings in a different time drawled as she walked up to him.  “Private eye and public nuisance.” She threw a glance inside. “What’d ya do to him?”

“Officer Calamity,”  He greeted, ignoring her grumbled protest that that wasn’t her name.  “A mild poison. Get him into the hospital, and he’ll be fine.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “Ya didn’t do anything stupid like almost poison yourself in the process, right?”

“Oh, don’t be dull.”  Logan rolled his eyes.  “Of course I didn’t.” He briefly explained the events that transpired inside.

Officer Katrina Santos eyed him oddly.  “You drank from a glass; same as him.”

The Private Eye scoffed.  “They weren’t poisoned, officer.”  

The policewoman halted dead in her tracks and stared at him incredulously.  “Then how do ya explain the nearly dead man in the middle of my investigation?”

Logan groaned.  “Really, must I spell it out for you?”  He spoke slowly and patronizingly, as if to a child.  “I could never take the risk of poisoning myself; otherwise where would you and your incompetent coworkers be?”

He studiously ignored her scowl.

“Mr. Fontane was a notorious gambler; there was no way he’d be able to resist playing the odds, especially if it let him get away.  I merely offered him a metaphorical stacked deck.”

“If ya quite done bein’ cryptic, Mr. Sul?”  Officer Santos interrupted dryly.

“I highly doubt I shall ever be done being cryptic.”  Logan sighed. “But, if you insist.” A smirk quirked the edges of his lips.  “Mr. Fontane wasn’t poisoned by either glass of sherry. He was poisoned when I instructed him to sniff the vial.  He inhaled the toxins and was damned from that moment onwards. It was only a matter of stalling.”

Katrina shook her head slowly.  “You’re far too clever, Logan.”

He scoffed.  “No such thing, officer.”  He disappeared in a whirlwind of tailcoats and shining black brogues.  He repeated his own words to himself as he sauntered down the gritty New York streets, smirking.  “No such thing.”

 

The heat was stifling.  In the middle of the hottest August day in almost a hundred years, Logan Sul, Private Detective, shouldn’t have been as disgruntled as he was by the weather.  Yet, the oppressive heat stuck to him like he was a gnat in a vat of honey.

Logan leaned back in his leather chair and loosened his blue tie.  A glass of golden scotch sweated on his desk; his finger idly tapped against its ribbed side as he considered just packing up and heading home.  He wouldn’t want a client to see him like this. He was already hideously improper, suit jacket slung over the edge of his mahogany desk and suspenders pushed off of his shoulders.  He was even tempted to undo a few buttons on his shirt.

He let his gaze, lazy under the oppressive heat, wander around his office.  Aside from his large desk and a few seats for clients, it was admittedly sparse.  A file cabinet rested in the corner opposite his desk. A crystal platter holding cups for vials of scotch and whisky rested on a side table.  Yellow afternoon sunlight slanted in through the blinds, casting the walls with dark and light stripes.  Instead of pictures of loved ones or pets, the walls were covered with newspaper front pages from his many cracked cases over the years:  the 1945 missing Goldblum diamond, the 1942 kidnapped British Heiress, the 1939 disappearance of Thomas Sanders.

Logan lazily scooped up his glass and took a sip.  He grimaced. Warm.

He was debating just closing up shop for the day (after all, who would be desperate enough to need help on a day like today?)  when a soft knock rapped against his door.

Logan quickly shoved his suspenders back into place and haphazardly tightened his tie.  “Come in,” He called, knowing his deep baritone rumble would travel through the heavy oak door.

The door opened and a tall, handsome man swept through like a velvet hurricane.  If Logan had known the trouble that would follow the knock-out in front of him, he’d have calmly refused to take his case and send him on his not-so merry way.  In the moment, however, Logan was busy cataloguing the man, inspecting him for a clue as to why he would be here.

He was tall and muscular, clad in a tight, dark suit, unusual for a day as unseasonably hot as this one.  His legs stretched for days, and the way his hip bones jutted made Logan shift in his chair. His brown face was composed entirely of angles: a sharp, angular jaw; a straight nose; high cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass.  His eyes were obscured by a mass of dark brown hair. His hands were shaking as he firmly shut the door behind him, closing it with a definitive _click._

“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me your name?”  Logan, still leaning back in his chair, inclined his head towards the leather chair opposite.

The man sat but said nothing.

“Whisky?  Scotch?” Logan offered, preparing to rise.  He was terrible at niceties, but he knew a few sips of hard liquor could loosen most tongues.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself.”  The other man finally spoke. His voice was sultry, higher than Logan would have expected.  He finally looked up and Logan found himself gazing into an enchanting pair of haunted eyes, shining with secrets.  “I’ve come because I need your help, Mr. Sul.”

Logan arched an eyebrow.  “I hardly expected a social call.”

The other man flushed, knitting his hands together in his lap.  “My name is Roman. Roman Torres.” His lovely mouth twisted in a grimace.  “I work at a nightclub down on 31st. A performer.” He looked up and his mouth twisted in a half-smirk, as if his usual good humor was weighed down by an unknown burden.  “You may know me better by my stage name - Roman Prince.”

Logan nodded.  “You'd be hard-pressed to find a man in New York who didn't know of you, Mr. Torres.”

A small, genuine smile managed to pierce through the man's shroud of gloom. “I've been… fortunate.”

“Yes,”  Logan agreed absently, gaze darting over to the door.  “So, tell me, Mr. Torres.” He suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowing.  “How long has your stalker been harassing you?”

Roman stared at him incredulously for a long moment before a smirk settled onto his red-painted lips.  “So you really are as good as they say.”

Logan scoffed.  “Hardly.” He took a sip of his whiskey, the burn as familiar as a sleepless night.  “Anyone with half of a brain could do what I do.”

“Then I suppose your opinion is that most people suffer with an eighth of a mind?”

“I could never be so callous,” Logan corrected.  “A quarter, at least.”

Eyes half-lidded and lips curled with amusement, Roman crossed his legs, and Logan found his eyes drawn to their long stretch.

He caught himself and cleared his throat, adjusting his tie.  “It was a simple deduction, really. No one would wish to wear thick clothing as dark as yours on a day as hot as this one. Especially someone like you, who strikes me as… colorful.”

Colorful was hardly the right word for it, but the other phrases Logan wanted to utter would probably earn him a slap to the face.  The man was as obvious as a gun to the temple, and he filled Logan with the same thrill.

He continued, “I can therefore conclude that you’re trying to go incognito.  Combine that with your status, general paranoia - evidenced by your closing the door so meticulously- and allure, it’s laughably easy to see why you’ve come to me. Somebody’s been harassing you, and you need me to see who it is.”

Roman arched an eyebrow.  “All that from a black suit?”

“I doubt you’d be interested in the observations I could make about the rest of you.”  Logan digressed. “Now, tell me about this stalker of yours, Mr. Torres.”

“I’ll have to take you up on that offer for a drink first.”

Logan poured and passed it to Roman, fingers brushing.  Roman’s touch was fire.

He swirled the glass, staring into the amber liquid, before sipping slowly.  “My type of work brings me a lot of attention. Most is wanted, but, occasionally, someone will cross the line. Mr. Salem is one of those people.”

Logan leaned forward.  “If you are aware of who he is, why have you come to me?”

“Because I can’t prove it.”  Roman downed the rest of the glass.  “And because Mr. Salem is a very rich, powerful man. I need evidence, Mr. Sul.”

“What do you have so far?”

Roman grimaced.  “Roses.”

Logan blinked slowly.  “You’ll have to forgive me, but I was given to understand roses are a traditionally positive gift for a performer.”

Roman laughed humorlessly, tapping long fingers on his knee.  “Roses, yes. A single red rose in my _locked_ dressing room every night? Not so much.”

“I see.”  Logan nodded.  “Then you can consider me your ally in this endeavor, Mr. Torres.”

The performer demurred.  “Kind of you, Mr. Sul.”

Logan snorted.  “The one thing you will find that I am not, Mr. Torres, is kind.”

He rose and strode to the door in a motion like the rippling of a thundercloud.  “Show me,” he instructed, reaching for his hat.

Roman started.  “Now?”

“I like to start immediately. No time for biases or falsehoods to creep in.”  He opened the door and inclined his head. “After you, Mr. Torres.”

 

New York was a superficially beautiful city.  Gleaming towers stood shrouded in clouds of cigarette smoke and smog.  Between them, crime festered in cramped, dingy alleyways. It was the type of city that tourists gawked at and natives walked though suspiciously, shoulders hunched, fingers anxiously hovering over pocket books, and eyes darting from side to side.  Anyone with an ounce of common sense left the city as soon as they could, leaving only the brave, the bold, and the stupid behind.

To this day, Logan was still vaguely unsure which group of the three he belonged to.  

More importantly, however, he needed to know which the man he was following belonged to.  Bravery in his presence at Logan’s side, dauntlessly fighting back; boldness in the set of his shoulders, head held high and practiced smile held in place; stupidity in his recklessness.  Everyone in this godforsaken city had one foot in the grave. Roman Torres didn’t seem to realize death was closer than he would’ve wished.

“We’re here.”  Roman brought them to a stop outside of a low-slung building, dwarfed by the skyscrapers flanking it.  It was well-kept, clean, and utterly inconspicuous, save for the faintly glowing neon sign above the door - _Ego._  “I'll introduce you around.”

Logan nodded briskly and held open the door for him before stepping through the doors to the smoky, dimly lit building beyond.

In less than twenty four hours, someone would be dead.


	2. Good Manners are Dead, Like Someone is About to be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tws:  
> \- mentions of stalking  
> \- alcohol  
> \- accidental misgendering
> 
> word count: 3424

“Where the hell have you been?”  Someone with shadows under his eyes and a scowl on his lips stormed up as soon as Roman and Logan stepped into the nightclub.  “Patton’s been flipping out!”

“Aw, nice to know you care, too, Marilyn Morose.”  Roman grinned unflappably as the man in the purple tie pulled Roman in for the angriest hug Logan had ever witnessed.

He pulled back just as suddenly, scowl redirected at Logan.  “Who are you?” Logan noted with interest the weights tugging at his jacket, the careful positioning of his pugilist body between Logan and Roman.

“Logan Sul.”  He held out a hand to shake.  “I presume you're the bodyguard.”

“You told him about me?”  The bodyguard ignored Logan entirely, glancing behind himself at Roman.

“No,” Roman replied, looking entirely too pleased with himself.  “I didn't. Mr. Sul, please meet Virgil Avery, my bodyguard.”

“Don't flatter yourself, Princey,” Virgil said dryly.  “I'm security for the whole place and run whatever errands Patton throws at me.”

Logan withdrew his hand and fought to keep his expression neutral.  “Charmed, I'm sure.”

Virgil quirked an eyebrow.  “Well, that makes one of us.”

“Be nice, Grim Garson.  Logan's… a friend.”

“And is Mr. Avery to trust your obviously flawed judgment?  You did find friendship him, for whatever reason.”

The bodyguard’s jaw tightened.  “What are you talking about, Mr. Sul?” Virgil drawled venomously, possessively putting an arm around the slimmer man’s waist.  “I absolutely hate his guts.”

Scoffing, Logan took a moment to glance around the entryway.  It was nice enough, all velvet drapes and polished wooden floors.  Two men struggled with crates of electrical equipment as the hesitant notes of a band warming up drifted in.  It was quiet, but that was only to be expected. The sun hadn’t yet renounced its throne in the sky. Soon enough, the dark underbelly of New York would come out to play.

“Oh, goodness gracious!”  A man swept into the room in a flurry of gray and blue, cheerful grin dancing on his face.  “Why didn't you kiddos tell me you were having trouble?” He easily lifted one of the crates and bustled it onto the other room, returning for the other after a moment.  “Now, Luz, see if you can help Apolo in costumes, and, Toby-”

He cut himself off as he caught sight of Roman, and his warm gray eyes lit up.  “Ro!” He threw himself at the performer, wrapping him in a hug.

Roman seemed faintly amused, patting the man's back.  “Hi, Patton.”

“Where were you?”  He cried, looking up pleadingly.  “I was worried sick! After all that stuff that's been happening, I just-”  His gaze wandered over to Logan, and, as if just noticing his position, pulled back sheepishly.  “Hi there! I'm Patton Parker, owner of _Ego._ Sorry about that flowery little tangent; I wasn't expecting anything to _stem_ from that conversation, huh, _bud?”_  He grinned, holding out a gloved hand, and Logan shook it, trying to process the sheer enthusiasm radiating off of this Patton.

“A pleasure,” Logan said faintly, eyes stinging from the blinding grin directed at him.  “Logan Sul, private eye.”

Patton froze imperciably and Virgil stiffened.  “Is something the matter, kiddo?” Patton smiled at him carefully.  “I didn’t think we would need a fancy detective for anything.”

“He’s just a friend of mine,” Roman interrupted smoothly.  “I thought I’d show him around.”

The tension melted out of Patton’s shoulders, and he smiled, nose crinkling.  “Oh, well it’s double nice to meet you then!”

Virgil made a sound of discontent, eyeing Logan with scarcely-concealed ire.  “Quite.”

Roman took his arm and bustled him away before Virgil could start giving Logan the fifth degree.  The thought made a smile flicker at the corner of Logan’s lips. After his sixth time dragged down to the NYPD station in handcuffs, he was pretty sure he could handle any interrogation.

“Why all the suspicion?”  Logan’s eyes automatically swept over the main room of the club, taking in the stage rimmed with thick velvet curtains and the mirrors set periodically in the far wall.  A low-slung bar held his gaze for a moment longer than anything else, yet he managed to focus on the people in the dim, smoky corners, moving equipment and preparing for their customers.  “Your friends didn’t seem too taken with me.”

Roman’s fingers tapped against his arm, but when Logan shot him a glance, the other man didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it.  Sparks lit up Logan’s skin with every tap.

“We have a… specific clientele.”  Roman’s words came out slowly, worrying at the edge of his lips before he allowed them to fall.  “So our record with the police hasn’t always been the best. It’s best if we don’t get any flatfoots hanging around.”

Logan blinked.  “What does the police raiding this place for being a gay bar have to do with the arch of their feet?”

A noise between a choke and a laugh twisted its way out of Roman’s throat.  “Not one for subtlety, are you, Mr. Sul?”

“No.”  Logan fished a notebook out of his pocket and carefully wrote down ‘flatfoot’.  “For what am I to understand this word is a substitute?”

“A policeman,” Roman said, slightly bewildered and more than a little amused.  “Might I ask about the notebook?”

“I’m expanding my vocabulary,” Logan said primly, snapping his notebook closed and sliding it into his trench coat's pocket.  “Tell me why you didn’t go to your friends with your concerns about this Mr. Salem.”

Malcontent settled in Roman’s brow, darkening his rich brown eyes.  “Patton likes to believe the best in everyone. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe me; he’s just unsure Mr. Salem means harm.”

“And Mr. Avery?”

“It’s, ah…”  Roman lowered his tone.  “Virgil prefers Mx., actually.”

“Either way,” Logan said impatiently, “what is Mx. Avery’s reaction to all of this?”

“The opposite.”  Red lips twisted dowerly.  “They’re convinced it goes beyond Mr. Salem, there’s a conspiracy, and no one can be trusted.”

Logan snorted.  “A person after my own heart.”

Roman lowered his eyes, smirking.  “I might have to take up nihilism, in that case.”

“I have rather strong doubts that you would change yourself for anyone.”  The detective took in his bold red lipstick. “Your habits are your own - flirtation and all.”

A flush colored the curve of Roman’s cheek.  “Is the flirting too much? I can-”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”  Logan strode ahead, amber eyes analyzing all.  He darted a glance over his shoulder. “Not enough.”

Roman froze for a moment before his brain kicked back into action and he hastened to the detective’s side.  “Trouble and a half, aren’t you, Mr. Sul?”

“I never do anything halfway, Mr. Torres.”  Logan eyed the mirrors and pressed his finger against one, narrowing his eyes when it touched its reflection.  “One-way mirrors?” Discretion clearly was the name of the game.

“The private rooms all have one.”  Roman pulled back a thick velvet draping and gestured down a narrow, dark hallway.  “His is box five.”

“Is he there now?”

“Should be. He likes to harass the staff, and he and Patton regularly eat together.”  Roman smiled at him, all soft silk lips and dark jeweled eyes. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you, Mr. Sul?”

Logan shook his head.  “Careful with a smile like that, Mr. Torres. It could make a man do unspeakable things.”

Roman just laughed, murmured “hopefully not to me”, and slipped away.

Logan crept into the darkness.

“It was just business, babe.”  A nasally voice drifted out of the box and into the hallway.

“You know damn well it was more than that.”  Another, deeper and smoother, countered.

Logan immediately drew himself sideways in the narrow hall, ears pricked.  He crept forward, gazing through a gap in the doorway to see a tall man looming above a shorter man who casually sipped his drink.  In the corner, a dark-skinned woman with tender, drooping lips sat, bold, cruel eyes pointedly fixed on the compact in her hand.

“If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty,” the taller of the two men scoffed, narrowing mismatched eyes.  The expression contorted his handsome, dusky face, shifting the patches of peeling skin on his cheek.

“Oh, darling,” the other purred, “you always say the nicest things.”  He chuckled darkly, pushing up the sunglasses on his nose. “It’s just business, just a deal. Nothing to get so worked up about. You know how these things are.”

The first man hissed, gritting his jaw and turning on his heel before either could say anything else.  Logan quickly shrunk back, absconding to an inconspicuous distance. The man passed Logan in the hall, roughly knocking their shoulders together and continuing his warpath.

Logan arched an eyebrow after him.  “You’re quite excused,” he muttered sardonically.

He waited a moment longer, but, when no further conversation came, he tapped on the partially ajar door.

“I thought I told you to keep everyone away, Pat-” The man cut off as he came face-to-chest with someone who was decidedly not Patton Parker.  “And you’re not him.” He looked up, over the edge of his sunglasses, and grinned slowly. “Although I’m not sure I mind.” He stepped back, sweeping with his arm.  “Come on in.”

The woman in the corner closed her compact with a sharp _click,_ standing.  “Darling,” she said, the name amusing on her tongue, “you’ll have to excuse me.”

The man turned and smiled at her, wry.  “If you insist, Viper, dearest.”

Logan stepped aside to allow Viper to walk past him, returning the assessing glance she shot his way.  She disappeared around the corner with a rustling of her red silk dress against her dark skin.

“Your beard, I presume?”

He froze for a moment before relaxing his face into a long, easy grin.  “Am I really that obvious? What gave me away?”

“You licked your lips as soon as I entered.”

The other man laughed.  “Can't exactly blame me for that, babe.”  He winked. “You look absolutely edible.”

“I assure you I am not,” Logan said stiffly.  “I’m Logan Sul.” He held out a hand to shake.

“Remy Salem. CEO of Salem Oil.”  He ignored the hand and swept into the private room, melting into a plush seat.  Remy looked up and arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to take a seat?”

“I prefer passive-aggressively leaning in doorways.”  Logan tucked his hand in his pocket because no one had any manners in this godforsaken palace, lounging in the door frame.

The businessman chuckled.  “Imma dance my cute little ass right out in a limb here and guess that no one’s ever accused you of being a people person, babe.”

“You would be correct.”  The private eye ran his eyes over his quarry, nothing the artfully tousled hair, the monogrammed green silk handkerchief, the rings glittering on his fingers.  Logan didn’t know the first thing about fashion, but that suit reeked of money. “I take it you have no such issues.”

“What can I say?”  He slid the sunglasses off of his nose, revealing a open, handsome face and shining blue eyes.  “Everybody loves me.”

“The question is if that love is reciprocated.”

“Darling, I’m flattered, but let me buy you a drink first.”  Remy chucked and lit a cigarette, breathing out a long stream of noxious smoke.  Logan could've asked him to stub it out, but asking someone else to stop their vices was a bit hypocritical coming from the man who'd downed five glasses of scotch this morning.

“Whisky, neat, if you’re taking requests.”  The plush velvet chair opposite Remy’s tried to swallow Logan whole, but he perched cautiously at its edge.

Remy threw back his head and laughed.  “I just might like you, Mr. Sul.”

“I’m flattered,” Logan shot back dryly, “but let me get that drink first. I’d need it.”

Remy’s smile put the private eye on edge.  It was just too sharp, just too pointed. A leer he could have dealt with, could have justified his hand curling into a fist and striking, but that smile, just dripping with banal satisfaction, left Logan fuming.

“Tell me just who you’re supposed to be, necktie.”  A perfectly manicured hand waved at Logan. “Bit too much of the repressed nerd vibe to be a corporate spy” - Logan’s lip curled back - “so I’m thinking reporter? Some kinda snoop.”

“ **I’m** -” Logan cleared his throat, banishing the heat from his voice.  “I am no such thing; I assure you. Merely a curious bypasser.”

“Is that right.”  Flat. It wasn’t a question.

“Have I done something to warrant your suspicion, Mr. Salem?”  There was a glass bottle to Logan’s left, easy to shatter and swing.

“No need to snap your cap.”  The business man shrugged amiably, tapping the edge of his cigarette against his lip.  “I just didn’t get where I am by trusting every pretty bird who walks through my door.”

Logan was fairly certain Remy Salem was the only fowl creature there, but he pressed on regardless.  “Like Mr. Torres, for example?”

Understanding dawned in Remy’s eyes, his smile turning sharp.  “I’d staunch the interest before you bleed out, babe. Roman isn’t very… kind to his fans.”  He glanced out of the one-way mirror, eyeing the stage ravenously, as if he could see what was to come.  “He’s reacted badly to a couple of my little gifts.”

“Try a nice card next time,” Logan suggested wryly.  “I'm sure he'd prefer Hallmark to whatever daisies you've been giving him.”

“Roses,” Remy corrected reflexively; satisfaction curled the edge of the private eye’s mouth.

“My mistake.”

 

The conversation ended shortly thereafter, with Remy stating that his time was money and he couldn't waste it on small talk.  Logan thought about responding that the business man couldn't afford him, but then he compared the lush room to his own crumbling abode and decided to spare himself the embarrassment.  Remy Salem had enough money to buy what was left of Logan's soul and still have sufficient pocket change to privatize the Taj Mahal.

Logan strode down the shadowed hall, towards the main room.

“Are you excited for your show tonight?”  A dark, sultry voice purred.

Roman’s responded.  “As excited as I ever am, Mrs. Salem.”

“Honestly, Roman, you can call me Viper at this point.”

Logan stilled, narrowing his amber eyes at the sight of Viper Salem stroking Roman’s arm and pressing against him.

The performer’s smile was bland but held no discomfort.  Part of the job was dealing with the attentions of strangers, Logan supposed.  Amusement lingered in the set of Roman’s eyebrows as Viper told him how much she enjoyed his singing.  “You have a wonderful… voice.”

Her hand crept over to his chest, and Roman jerked away, smile sharp and pointed.  “So I’ve been told.”

Logan took that as his cue, materializing out of the shadows.  “Mr. Torres, if you would.” The relief that spread over Roman’s face at the private eye’s appearance did something strange to Logan’s chest, seizing it.

“With pleasure, Mr. Sul.”  Roman hastened from Viper, who rolled her eyes and fixed her gaze on a woman busy at work cleaning chairs before the patrons arrived.  Logan could hear her deep purr follow them as they slipped away.

“You’ve rescued me.”  Roman grinned. “That woman was going to eat me alive.”

“Is that a typical behavioral pattern for her?”  Logan took his arm and guided them around a man fussing with a jet-black grand piano.

Roman snorted.  “She and Mr. Salem cheat on each other like it’s going out of style.”

“Unsurprising, if his aphrodisiacs lie elsewhere. Like you, for example?”

Roman tensed, eyes hardening as he nodded.  “Like me.”

“Which is why you believe he is your stalker.”  Logan looked down at Roman, amber eyes narrowing.  “Tell me how you ascertained that it is truly Mr. Salem.”

Roman glanced at the dark hall behind them. "Have you ever felt eyes on you?" he asked, drawing them into an enclave between the thick curtains and grasping onto Logan’s arms.  "Have you ever had the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the goosebumps rise on your skin, the blood in your veins race because you _know_ something is about to happen?"

Roman was so warm, so close, and Logan's voice barely managed to stay steady.  “I'm acquainted with the sensation.”

“Then you know how I know.”  Roman’s fingers drew lines up and down the inside of Logan’s arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.  “I’m so terribly frightened, Mr. Sul, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

“With reasonable compensation, I’m all yours, Mr. Torres.”  It had been uncharacteristic of Logan not to charge upfront, but he was reasonable certain one of the most popular performers in New York City could afford his rates.  If not, he was sure they could come to some… other arrangement.

“Thank you.”  That smile flashed at him again, dark and lovely.  “Then go buy yourself a drink, Mr. Sul, and don't you dare be late to my show tonight.”

“Maybe you could join me?”  Logan took a half-step closer, hand dropping down to rest on Roman’s waist.  “I’m sure I’d enjoy the company.”

Roman quirked an eyebrow, red lips curving in amusement.  “You know, there’s a speed limit in this state, Mr. Sul.”

“Which would be what, officer?”

“Forty-five miles an hour.”

Logan chuckled.  “Just how fast was I going?”

Roman shot back a grin.  “Ninety.”

“Then how about you get off that motorcycle of yours and give me a ticket?”  Logan laid his forearm against the wall, leaning closer.

“How about I let you off with a warning?”  Roman’s fingers crept upwards, wrapping around Logan’s tie.

“It’d have to be indelible, Mr. Torres. Otherwise, I’m not sure the lesson would sink in.”

“Oh, trust me, necktie,” Roman purred, tugging him closer, “you can’t forget any punishment of mine so easily.”

Logan leaned in, and his lips met Roman’s finger.

Logan made a noise of surprise, and Roman grinned up at him, eyes dancing with amusement.  “You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?”

Roman pulled his finger away, and Logan’s lips tingled.  “A man can always hope.”

“He that loves to be flattered, is worthy of the flatterer.”

“Timon of Athens didn’t face the temptations that plague me.”  Logan pulled back, adjusting his tie and willing the color out of his cheeks.

The seductive smirk on Roman’s mouth fell away, and his eyes lit up, smile too wide, too eager to be alluring.  “You’ve read Timon of Athens?!”

“I- I’ve…” Logan, unsure how to adjust to the sudden personality change, blinked rapidly.  “I’m familiar with the majority of The Bard’s works.”

Suddenly Roman’s voice filled the air, higher than he normally let it be, as he chattered excitedly about the parallels between Julius Caesar and Love’s Labor’s Lost and how Cesario from Twelfth Night was his all-time favorite, and how he was rereading King Lear; his voice crashed over Logan in waves of light, high and bright and ecstatic.

Logan was suddenly, painfully aware that, within this dark, monochromatic place, Roman _glowed_.

Just as abruptly as it began, Roman’s monologue cut off, and he flushed, cheeks coloring prettily as he demurred, tone dropping back down into a low rumble.  “Forgive me, Mr. Sul. I’m not used to having anyone share my… eccentric tastes.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Torres.”  Logan tilted his head, fingers drumming pensively against Roman’s waist.  “I merely didn’t categorize you as a literarian.”

“Then consider your lesson learned, Mr. Sul.”  Roman slipped away from him, fixing his wicked grin back in place.  “I am falser than vows made in wine.” He flicked the brim of Logan’s hat.  “Buy yourself a drink, Mr. Sul, and do try not to miss me too much.”

“Like I’d miss a bullet in my side,” Logan said dryly.

Roman just laughed, dark and smoky as the nightclub itself.  “I have to rehearse. I’ll see you tonight, Detective.”

Logan’s breath caught in his throat as the performer sauntered off, hips swaying.  By the time he was composed enough to formulate a comeback, it was too late. He scowled and fixed his fedora more firmly on his head, sweeping into the entryway.  He passed Patton, fussing over the band, and Virgil, watching him with dark eyes.

The time read 6:42, and a smile threatened Logan’s lips.  He had time enough to kill, and Picani’s was just around the corner.

He was dying for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> logan, you useless gay
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has left kudos, subscribed, and COMMENTED so far! I know I haven't replied, but I've read and appreciated each an every one. You all are the best <3
> 
> Roast me if you see a typo, cowards!


	3. Convention of the Useless Gays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Alcohol throughout; morally gray Deceit

The bar’s neon sign flashed in the middle of a dirty, darkening street; _Id_ it proclaimed, shining a blue beacon to outcasts, broken and bored people, and anyone else who prefered to drink away their wallet. Blue-collar pilgrims came to _Id_ every evening for their fix of liquid oblivion.  The bartender, Picani, served amazingly rough swill, and the working slaves crushed by the tombstone of the day swallowed it, wincing, then asked for more with husky, dead voices.  Cigarette smoke veiled the room, mixed with a thick hum of voices and the sultry music on the radio. It was a good place, the type just dirty enough to be cozy.

“Picani, the usual.”  Logan sat down with a weary sigh, drumming his fingers against the scuffed oak bar.  The scars adorning it were remnants of brawls past - some he had lost, but far more he had won.

The bartender already had the bottle in hand.  “Two fingers of scotch and limited eye contact.”  He poured with a wink. “You got it, boss.”

“You are not by any means employed by me,”  Logan pointed out, gladly accepting the proffered glass.

“I might as well be.”  Picani snorted. “I'm pretty sure you drink half of your income away here.”

Ochre liquid slammed into the back of his throat as Logan knocked back the glass all at once.  “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.” He pulled off his hat and placed it on the seat next to him.

“Would it kill you to have a bit of company sometime?”  The bartender sighed. “Heavens knows I enjoy our little chats, but it’d be nice to see a gu- a friend with you.”

Logan snorted, tapping his glass for a refill.  “I’ve yet to have company, and I’ve yet to die. The two just might be related.”

“You of all people should know correlation is not causation.”  Picani poured another finger with a disappointed twist to his mouth, although Logan neither cared nor knew if the pseudo-therapist’s ire was due to the once-more empty glass or his logical fallacy.

“I don’t have friends, Picani. Get used to it.”

“Bold words for someone in hugging range.”  Picani grinned as Logan’s eyes widened and he shuffled backwards awkwardly in his bar stool.

“Please refrain.”

“Ah, you’re a dork.”  Picani sighed fondly and tilted his head at an angle Logan had come to abhor.  “Much like Flower from Disney’s Bambi, you crave affection but are hindered from it by some intrinsic aspect of yourself.”

“Much like a radio, I tuned you out after Disney,” Logan retorted.  

Picani just tutted.  “We’re going to have a break through one of these days, Logan.”

“I think it’s scheduled just after hell freezing over.”

The bartender hummed disapprovingly but was summoned down the bar before he could dispense another _wonderful_ nugget of wisdom.

“A glass of whatever's the strongest swill you got,” a low voice commanded.  “I'm having a _great_ day.”

Logan turned to see a familiar man settling a few seats down, startlingly handsome even with the patch of flaking skin cupping his cheek.  His voice was a hiss, syllables a little too fluid as they rolled off of his tongue.

The private eye’s amber eyes gleamed.  It was, in fact, the very same man he had seen arguing with Remy Salem earlier.

“In fact, Picani” - Logan moved to sit next to him - “why don’t you get him two?”

Picani made a stifled noise of excitement, trying to keep his arm-flailing discrete.

The stranger shot the private eye a glance, lip curled.  “I’m really not in the mood, Specs. Find some other bird to tip a few with.”

Logan raised his hands in pseudo-surrender.  “I meant no harm. I merely understand the need for liquid comfort. It’s my good deed of the day, if you will.”

The other snorted.  “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Logan bit his lower lip, looking down and letting his eyelashes fan out.  “Is that a threat or an offer?”

A smile flickered begrudgingly at the edge of the stranger’s mouth.  “Does it have to be just one?”

Picani set the two glasses down with a click, deftly pouring malt whiskey in an arc of amber light.  “Enjoy your drinks, boys. Logan, I’ll put it on your tab.” He winked, grinning, and bustled to the other end of the bar, chatting with a dark-haired person in a gray-striped sweater.

“Well, now you have me at a disadvantage,” Logan sighed, pushing the glasses towards the other man. “You know my name, but I’m ignorant as to yours.”

The man scooped up a glass, staring at it pensively.  He took a slow sip then smiled abruptly, all white, shining teeth set in a dark, handsome face.  He leaned closer, masses of clove curls shifting beneath his bowler hat as he put a gloved hand on Logan’s knee.  “Darling,” he purred in that too-fluid voice, “I don’t give a damn.”

Logan ground his teeth as the prospective casanova downed the rest of his drink then reached for the other.  Logan snatched it away.

“Now _where_ are your manners, Logan?”  The snake’s grin grew as Logan’s cheeks flushed.

“I was under the impression I was dealing with a gentleman here.”  Logan drained the glass vindictively. “I see I was, for once, mistaken.”

“Fine. I suppose I’ve tortured you long enough.”  The snake laughed. “Dorian. Dorian Arya.”

Neither of them offered their hands to shake, and Logan eyed Dorian’s yellow gloves distastefully.  Honestly, who wore gloves on a day as hot as this?

Dorian caught his gaze, and his amiable facade shuttered closed, replaced with cool, handsome blankness.  “Yes, everyone _loves_ the gloves.”  His smile was flat as he signaled Picani for a refill.  “I’ve got to find a way to keep the poor dames and pips from being even more frightened of the strange brown man, after all.”

“It was not my intent to stare.”

“It’s _never_ the intent of anyone here.”  He cast a side glance at Logan through mismatched eyes - one the darkest brown, the other almost golden.  “But you’re not from around here either, are you, Logan-?”

The Indian man’s voice trailed off expectantly, and Logan filled him in.  “Sul. And no, I’m not.” He had only the faintest memories of Korea, but the stigma of wearing the wrong country’s skin trailed him like a cop after a crook.

Dorian’s gaze sharpened.  “Logan Sul,” he repeated; suddenly, Logan wanted nothing more than to scrape his name from the other man’s mouth.  He wasn’t governed by emotions or instincts, but he did recognize his brain, at times, filled in gaps he wasn’t aware of, resulting in what was called colloquially a ‘gut instinct’.  Currently, his stomach was screaming at him that something was wrong with the way Dorian said his name.

Then, that easy smile was back into place, and Dorian was raising his glass in a toast.  “Then I suppose this one is to the outcasts, Mr. Logan Sul.”

Logan tapped their drinks together.  “Well put, Mr. Dorian Arya.”

He’d never get tired of the burn of whisky, a dull roaring comfort by now.  Mosquitoes staggered away from him, dizzy with the stench of it on his blood.  It was a motion as easy as breathing - lift the glass, close his eyes, and, for a moment, forget.

Yet, of course, his eyes always opened again.

“Any reason you’re at an establishment such as this tonight?”

“You mean why I’m trying to get smoked?”  Dorian laughed; Logan couldn’t help but be impressed by how much bitterness he managed to fend off of his words.  “A business deal of mine fell through. It’s happened before, and it’s always been sorted out, but…” He shrugged and tapped his empty glass pensively.  “Sometimes it’s easier not to think about it.”

“I can drink to that.”  Logan signaled Picani for another round.

Dorian laughed.  “You’re just my type of guy, Mr. Sul.”

Logan lidded his eyes.  “Just what I was hoping to hear.”  He gazed at the other man, vaguely wondering the texture of Dorian’s peeling skin - atopic dermatitis, he vaguely recalled - and letting a look of consternation to settle on his own brow.  “I’ll confess you look familiar.”

Dorian laughed.  “How _original_. Really, I was hoping for better out of you, Mr. Sul.”

“I'm quite serious!”  Logan seriously gestured at his serious necktie with a seriously serious expression.  “I wear a necktie.”

Dorian blinked and snorted; not quite a smile and a laugh but close enough.  His shoulders were relaxed, arm draped casually across the bar his fingers idly tapped against. “How _could_ I have been so mistaken?”

“I won't hold it against you.”  Logan exposed his teeth, smiling.  “You know, I think I remember.”

The tension was back, his fingers drumming against the bar top picking up their pace.  “Do you now?”

“Haven’t I seen you around _Ego?”_

Dorian’s eyes tightened as he turned away, trailing a finger around the lip of his glass.  “Under duress. My business partner is quite the… fan. Besides, his wife likes the space to run rampant.”  He quirked an eyebrow at Logan. “And I’m _sure_ you just come for the drinks?”

Logan cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses.  “The place has a certain allure.”

The snake smirked.  “All about the ambiance, hm?”

“When did this become a conversation about me?”  Logan smiled. “I was simply here to offer a listening ear.”

“Yes, because listening to me bitch about my business partner is _far_ more interesting.”

“I’m sure he” - Logan internally shuddered at what he must say - _“feels_ awful about the deal falling through.”

Dorian smiled, lips pulled back to reveal sharp incisors.  “I’d wager you’re wrong there.”

“Is that your game, Mr. Arya?”  A headache was beginning to pull at Logan’s temples as they managed to talk themselves in circles.  “Gambling?”

“Why would it be? The odds are so _much_ more interesting when stacked against my favor,” he drawled sarcastically.

Logan blinked at him slowly, lips twisting.  “Have you ever said a straightforward sentence in your life?”

“Nothing straight about me, Mr. Sul” - he winked - “but I’m sure I _must_ have at some point.”

The glasses on the bar between them glittered dully, and Logan arched an eyebrow at them.  “Perhaps your tongue hasn’t been loosened enough quite yet.”

“Any looser, and it’d be running off without me.”  Dorian snorted, but the edge of his lip played with amusement as he glanced at the wall clock - 7:48.  “I’ve got an appointment, Logan Sul, but this has certainly been an… interesting engagement.” He slithered from his seat gracefully, all long thin limbs and sinew.  “I’ll see you around.”

“Yes.”  Logan smiled, amber eyes flashing.  “You will.”

He stayed perhaps five minutes more, long enough to make it obvious to the casual observer he wasn’t tailing the other (eyes were everywhere, and Logan had learned the hard way there was no such thing as ‘too careful’), before he stood, threw a few bills down on the bar, nodded at Picani - pointedly ignoring the thumbs-up flashed his way - and slipped into the dark night.

Figures passed him by - a few dressed to the nines, most clinging to rags.  He couldn't see any faces through the shroud of cigarette smoke and darkness, but that suited him just fine.  Faceless figures were the one constant in his life. Faceless men dying in the war. Faceless clients coming to him, sobbing about cheating husbands and dishonest spouses.  Faceless dames looking up at him through their eyelashes, scarlet with indignation when he turned away. Faceless men putting a hand on his knee, their voices rough when he kissed them as if it could offer any relief.

None of them mattered.  They were just stock characters, a useless role that anyone could fill.

All of them passed him by in the smog and the darkness and the sharp stench of nicotine, never to be seen again.

He instinctively reached to turn up the collar of his jacket, only to realize he was still in his button-up and suspenders.  The edge of his mouth twisted up. Dramatically sauntering down the dark street lost some of its effect when he didn’t have coattails flaring out behind him.

Time was ticking dangerously closer to eight as Logan glanced at his watch and cursed, picking up his pace.  He rounded a corner and saw it before him in the darkness.

The neon sign of _Ego_ hummed as it cast its red beacon out into the black and gray night, calling in those who the rest of the world shoved away.  Promises of music, of jazz and drink, drifted through the slightly ajar door, soft as a secret. The people obeyed, furtive men and clandestine women and shifty-eyed people, painted red by the neon glow, slinking through the doors to see their Prince.

It was showtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the patience on getting this chapter up! Some stuff is going on off-line that I really need to focus on right now, but rest assured I'm taking care of myself and working on the upcoming chapters. The next one is going to be So Much Fun ;)
> 
> A million gazillion thanks to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, and COMMENTED!!! Commenters are 10/10 my favorite people. I know I haven't responded to any, but please know I read and re-read and appreciate every single one <3
> 
> Stalk me to a bar and accuse me of murder if you see a typo (or just roast me, whichever works for you)


	4. Logan Wishes he was that Microphone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> \- smoking and alcohol  
> \- swearing  
> \- mildly sexual content  
> \- character death

The first thing Logan Sul saw upon entering _Ego_ was Viper Salem cooly stepping from a darkened side room labeled _utilities_ , smoothing her hair as a man with rumpled clothes stumbled out after her.

She shot him a dismissive side glance, and he quickly scampered off.  

“Mrs. Salem.”  Logan greeted her with a cool nod.  “I've heard so much about you I'm starting to wonder if any of it is true.”

“Only the bad stuff.”  She smirked. “Mr. Sul, isn't it? Charmed.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he lied, a habit as easy as breathing.

“I understand you were talking to my husband earlier.”  She lifted a hand to her face and examined her nails, frowning at a tiny smudge of filth under one.  “Nothing too interesting, I hope?”

“Simply a few business matters; all tedious, I assure you.”

She huffed an ironic laugh.  “Yes, he does love to keep his _affairs_ in order.”  At his arched eyebrow, she smiled complacently, ire wiped from expression.  “Then again, I’m just as meticulous.”

The band struck up a dramatic chord, and her eyes lit up, head snapping over towards the entrance to the showroom.  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Sul.” She didn’t bother waiting for him to return the farewell before she merged into the steady stream of people swarming into the club’s main floor.

He didn’t follow, instead stationing himself to the side, scanning the crowd.  It was a remarkably varied group - all skin colors and genders and adult ages mixed together to see their Prince.  A low thurm of voices mixed with the music, adding in a low bass to the melody, drifting alongside the cigarette smoke and sound of laughter.  

A blur of gray and blue zipped from one end of the crowd to the other, bringing with it a cheerful barrage of puns and laughter.  Logan neatly stepped forward to intercept it.

Patton Parker looked the exact same as he had earlier that day, completely unfatigued from bouncing around and tending to patrons.  “Oh, hiya!” He smiled distractedly, eyes darting over the visitors. “Mr. Logan Sul wasn’t it? So glad you _show_ ed up for the performance.”  He giggled.

Logan took a moment to breathe deeply and remind himself that he had been through war, puns really weren’t that bad.

“Your presence is such a gift!”  Patton laughed, shoulders bouncing.

Fuck this, Logan was going back to France.

“What a warm welcome,” he said dryly.

“I like to make sure all of my kiddos are taken care of!”  Patton grinned, bouncing on his heels. “Do you need anything? Can I help?”

“I’d like to have a quick word about Mr. Torres, but if you’re bu-”

“Roman?”  Patton’s restless movements stopped immediately, gray eyes snapping onto Logan.  “Is something wrong? He’s okay, right?”

The change in tone was such that Logan had to stop for a moment, blinking at the club’s owner.  “Yes, he’s quite” - _seductive, enchanting, attractive, confusing_ \- “fine. I merely wanted to chat.  That, however, can surely wait until you aren’t as preoccupied.”

“Aw, thanks, Lo!”  Patton grabbed onto his arm and squeezed it.  (Hug? Was that a hug?) “You’re the sweetest! I’ll get to you right after the show, okay?”

“Splendid.”  The word barely fell from Logan’s lips before the club owner launched himself back into the crowd, good-naturedly fussing over customers and laughing with the regulars.  Virgil was in the corner, dark eyes flitting suspiciously over the newcomers, but as Logan crossed the room to join them, they slipped away into the showroom.

Logan stepped into the stream of people and allowed himself to be carried inside.

 _Ego_ took on a different atmosphere when filled with patrons, the air thick with heady excitement.  The salaciousness of it all was a thrill, resulting in random bounds of excited giggles, exits being checked every few moments (just in case the police showed up), and liquid courage being knocked back by the bottle.  Patrons jostled against each other for seats nearest the stage and its runway, but Logan was able to secure a spot near the end, opposite the wall with Remy Salem’s box, by casually musing about the half-off drinks the bar was offering.  Smirking, he sat as the club-goers trotted like they sheep they were over towards the bar for their non-existent cheap booze.

He reclined languidly, crossing one leg over the other, and became aware of the distinct feeling of eyes on him.  Casually, he tilted his head from one side to the other, as if to crack his neck.

There.

In the darkened hallway leading to the booths, Dorian Arya was watching him.  Logan forced a smile and nodded cordially, but the other man didn’t return his greeting.  The private eye frowned, realizing Dorian’s eyes were trained somewhere over his head. He slowly stretched around to see Virgil Avery stationed against the wall behind him, glaring back at Dorian with something unreadable in their expression.

Before Logan could draw any conclusions, the lights flared dramatically, and Dorian made to go down the hallway, hesitated, and sat in the back of the showroom, disappearing in the crush of people.  Virgil entered a door hidden behind the thick velvet curtains and disappeared.

“And now, ladies, gents, and all our beloved guests” - Patton Parker stood on the stage of his club, smiling at the patrons - “please welcome the star of this and every hour - Mr. Roman Prince!”

The audience broke out into cheers, quickly quieted as the lights dimmed, and a singular spotlight shone against the thin gossamer curtains, revealing the shapely silhouette of a man.  “In olden days, a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking,” he crooned into an upright microphone as the curtains slowly drew back.  “Now heavens knows…”

Logan’s mouth went dry.

Roman’s black-rimmed eyes snapped up to meet his, and his red-painted mouth twisted into a smirk.  “Anything goes.”

He sauntered forward to cheers and whistles, red-sparkling pants slick against those long legs.  “Good authors, too, who once knew better words,” he purred, leaning his torso, encased in a white shirt with golden rope accents, against the wall, “now only use four lettered words.”

The pants clung like a second skin, muscles visibly shifting as he prowled across the stage, blowing kisses and winking at his captive audience.  “Writing prose, anything goes.”

Logan began mentally sorting through the list of his sins that had probably landed him in this exact spot.  Sure, he had shot a few people, broken into a couple places, poisoned that guy a week ago, was more than a bit of a jerk - okay maybe he did deserve torture.

“The world’s gone mad today.”  Roman’s hand trailed suggestively up and down the stand of the microphone, long fingers wrapped needily around it. “Good’s bad today. Black’s white today, and day’s night today.”

He detached the head of the microphone, curling the cord around his wrist.

“And all the guys today that people prize today!”  Roman rolled his eyes playfully as he sauntered down the stairs, reaching down with his free hand to run those long fingers across the jawlines of a few lucky patrons.  “Are just silly gigolos.” He leaned in on a person with flushed cheeks and wide eyes, grinning as they squirmed under his gaze. “Anything goes,” he crooned, tapping their nose lightly with the tip of his finger.  They almost fainted.

A curdle of envy shot through Logan’s system, burning twice as much as the whisky and nowhere near as fun. He found his lip curled back, revealing his eyetooth, and he shoved it back into place, cursing himself.  His hand curled into a fist, fingernails biting into the calloused flesh of his palm. Objective.

He had to remain objective.

The song picked up tempo, and Roman lit up with excitement, swaying to the beat.  “If driving fast cars you like, if low bars you like!” He was drawing farther away, towards the thickest part of his audience.  Roman didn’t even seem like he was walking towards them, drifting, instead, on jazz and adrenaline and the love of the crowd.

“If old hymns you like.”  Roman caught his eye and grinned, abruptly veering towards him.  The slow, sultry saunter transformed into a determined march, and Logan’s heart stuttered in his chest.  Surely Roman wasn’t going to do what Logan suspected he was going to do?

“If bare limbs you like.”  It started with Roman circling his chair, fingers gently trailing across the back of Logan’s neck, drawing goosebumps.  Then he was there before him, a hand on each armrest. He reached up to run the back of his hand across Logan’s cheek, touch blazing.  

“If heading west you like,” he purred, wrapping his arms around Logan’s neck as the audience whooped in delight.  “Or me undressed you like.” With a sudden tug, Roman was in the plush velvet seat with Logan, straddling the private eye.  He burned against Logan, like a match struck in the darkness, and they were pressed stomach-to-stomach, and Roman was warm and solid there in Logan’s lap, and this was definitely how Logan was going to die.

“Why, nobody will oppose.”  Logan’s heart hammered frantically against his chest as Roman smirked down at him, reaching up and toying with the brim of Logan’s fedora.  “Darling, don’t you know?” Roman leaned closer, closer until his breath brushed Logan’s lips. Then he quickly grabbed the hat and slipped off of Logan’s lap, grinning wickedly.  “Anything goes!”

Logan sputtered, trying to regain control of his heart rate, as Roman, reclining on the stage and drawing the hat across his chest, made eyes at some hapless pip in the first row, crooning all the way.

Logan swallowed deeply and reminded himself that it was Roman’s job to flirt with the audience.  A guy had to make a living, after all. He forced his eyes away from the stage and towards Remy Salem’s box, discerning a form pressed against the glass, staring, as they all were, at Roman.  Remy’s outline was a vague shadow against the one-way mirror, but the hunger in his stance was unmistakable.

The stab of jealousy that sliced between Logan’s ribs surprised him.  He grit his jaw and scanned the room for anything else. If Remy Salem was able to leave roses in Roman’s dressing room, it only stood to reason that he had some way of getting into it between the end of the show and Roman’s return.

Cataloguing the exits, Logan counted four he knew of - the entrance to the main room, the mouth of the hall leading to the private boxes, the door Virgil had disappeared into, and, presumably, a stage door.  He hadn’t seen Virgil reemerge yet, so it stood to reason there were at least two, possibly more, ways to get to the inner workings of the club.

The music built, and Logan realized he was missing the grand finale.  Quickly, he turned back towards the stage, just in time to see Roman replace the microphone head.

“And all the pains you’ve got.”  Roman sighed exaggeratedly, tugging his shirt collar just enough to reveal his collarbone and the edge of a white undershirt.  The audience whooped, and Logan shifted in his chair. Roman turned his head, just enough to catch Logan’s eye. “If any brain’s you’ve got.”

Logan couldn’t help but huff something that almost passed for a laugh.  Roman remembered. “A quarter, at least,” he murmured to himself.

“From those little radios,” Roman crooned, bringing up his hand and placing Logan’s fedora on his head.  It slipped down, almost covering his eyes, and he clung to the brim, lips curling wickedly. “Anything goes.”

His eyes blazed from under that dark brim, pinning Logan into place.  The Private Eye knew that, logically, they were in a room with masses of people, all clinging to Roman’s every note, but at that moment, with the fading spotlight casting shadows across Roman’s face, his grin red and dangerous, it was as if they were the only two people in the room, the building, the world.

Roman seemed to know his thoughts, smirk sharpening.  Slowly, discreetly, he nodded - five hundred micrometers of acknowledgement of this bond between them.  “Anything goes.”

It sounded almost like a warning.

The spotlight faded entirely, and the curtains swung closed, Roman’s last note echoing through the showroom.  There was a collective hush as it died, no one quite wanting to be the wretch who broke the enchantment. Then, someone started clapping, than someone else, then another, until it was a wave, a roar, a howl of something raw and feral.  Music couldn’t tame the savage beast when it ended.

The band picked up the pace, launching into a song everyone but Logan sang raucously along to. The song melded into another, and another, but Roman still didn’t reappear.

The band faltered as three songs rolled into four, then five.

The audience stirred, restless, and Patton came back on stage, red-faced and smiling anxiously.  His cuticles were ragged; he had been chewing his nails. “Now, now, kiddos, we’re having just a little-bitty technical difficulty backstage, so hang on a bit, okay? In the meantime, the band is taking requests!”

The pianist did not look particularly pleased about this, but gamely launched into the opening verse of After Hours at a shout from the audience.

The music managed to quell the crowd until, perhaps five minutes later, Roman sauntered back onto the stage, smirking.  “Sorry, darlings,” he purred, making wide, innocent eyes at them. “Just had to make sure I looked okay. After all, a prince has got to slay!”

The audience cheered as Logan slipped back into his seat, settling in for the rest of the show.  Even he, who was decidedly not a purveyor of the arts, could readily see the appeal. Although, it may have been less the performance and more the performer that held his attention.  Roman held the patrons in the palm of his hand for another six songs, toying with them playfully as his hips swayed in those infuriating pants and his dark, smooth voice raised goosebumps on fevered skin.  Fortunately for his cardio health and unfortunately for the part of him responsible for making poor choices, Roman didn’t favor him in anymore songs, keeping his flirtations to generalized provocations and coquettish, light touches of random audience members.

Eventually, however, the final song came to a crashing halt, and Roman stood on the stage, damp with sweat and grinning triumphantly.  “Thank you, beauties and gentle beauties!” He blew a kiss. “Come see me tomorrow, alright?”

The curtains fell to thunderous applause, but Logan paid it no mind.  Discreetly, he stood as the audience gathered their things, and prowled across the room.  Glancing around, his eyes narrowed, trying to piece the timeline together. Did Remy place the roses during the performance or after?  Would he be out now?

There was an echo to his footsteps as he traversed down the long, dark hallway and Logan sighed.  “Are you going to utter ‘hello’, or do you merely intend on striving after me?”

Virgil Avery slipped out of the shadows, dark eyes narrowed.  “What are you doing back here?”

“I merely thought I’d have a little chat with Mr. Salem, if you will permit it.”

They tensed, lip curling back.  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you harassing the clients, Mr. Sul.”

“Be that as it may, Mx. Avery” - Virgil inhaled sharply at the title, spine straightening - “I assure you Mr. Salem will not mind.”

“How’d you know to call me that?” they demanded.

“Mr. Torres informed me of your identity. I see no reason to use a malapropism, especially in terms of referral.”  Logan tilted his head towards the door of box five. “Now, if you don’t mind?”

Virgil stared at him for a long moment, jaw working under their dark skin and fingers tapping on their side, before slowly nodding.

“Splendid.”  Logan tapped lightly on the door.  “Mr. Salem? It’s Mr. Sul. Might I come in?”

There was no response, and he shot a look at Virgil.  “Is he out?”

They shrugged.  “I haven’t seen anyone come out this way since the show ended.”

“Mr. Salem, it’s Mr. Sul.”  Logan rapped again, but there was no response.  A twinge of annoyance hit him. “Mr. Salem, please, I know you’re in there.”  Still, nothing. Logan grit his jaw and backed up. “Have it your way.”

The doorknob crunched satisfyingly under his kick, sending the door flying open.  Logan made a mental note to reimburse Patton, pointedly ignoring Virgil’s ‘that cost money, you know’.  

“Now, Mr. Salem,” Logan sighed, adjusting his tie and strolling into the booth with Virgil begrudgingly at his side, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss-”

He saw the knee first, jutting out at an awkward angle from behind a chair.  The hands came next, bound with golden rope. Then the face, purpled and stil.  Then the neck, encircled by a furious red mark.

Remy Salem was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN!!!!
> 
> Thank you so much to all of my lovely readers, especially those of you who give comments, bookmark, and leave comments (aka my FAVORITE people).
> 
> Drop me in a 1940's lounge to have a gay panic if you see a typo.
> 
> Now, my dear readers... who killed Remy Salem?


	5. Don't You Hate it When a Dead Guy Ruins Your Evening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead yet! (but Remy sure hecking is)
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> \- previous character death  
> \- homophobic comments and use of queer as a slur  
> \- violence  
> \- character injury  
> \- blood  
> \- someone being left without knowledge if they will survive  
> \- one really subtle racist comment
> 
> We like to keep it fun here :D

“Where is his handkerchief?”

Virgil paused, tore their eyes away from the dead man, and stared at the private eye incredulously.  “Really? You find a dead guy in the middle of the floor, and your first instinct is to ask where his fucking handkerchief went?”

“I’m merely observing the unusualness of the scenario. Why on earth would anyone want to take his handkerchief?”  Logan’s words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Virgil hissed under their breath, reaching up and tugging on a tight, dark curl.

“I gotta get everyone out of here,” they muttered.  “When the police get here… everyone is in danger.”

Logan gazed at them levelly.  “You find a deadman in the middle of the floor, and your first thought is the police?”

“That’s crippling anxiety for you,” Virgil muttered, wiping their shaking hands on their pants.  They couldn’t quite detach their gaze from the corpse in the middle of the room, dark eyes wide and wild.  “Fuck, I gotta…” They swallowed. “Patton. I’ll go get Patton. He’ll know what to do.”

“Mr. Parker isn’t going to do a singular thing.”  Logan held out a hand, barring their exit. “Additionally, you do realize that, by evacuating the building, you could be letting the murderer get away?”

Judging by the way all the blood drained from their face, Virgil had not, in fact, thought of that.  “What are we supposed to do then? Everyone here could get arrested or worse!”

The scar running the length of Logan’s back twinged.  “Worse indeed.” He look a deep breath. “Fine. Get everyone out of here, but somehow get a list of everyone who is here tonight.”

Virgil looked at him, startled.  “You’re trusting me with that?”

Logan smiled coldly.  “The more suspects you give me, the less I’ll suspect you.”

Virgil started.  “You can’t seriously think that I-”

“I don’t know,” Logan interrupted.  “I can’t draw any conclusions at this point in time. Therefore, I will be regarding everyone as a suspect.”

“Fine then.”  They made for the door, but he stopped them.

“Let me see your hands,” he said.

“Why?”  Virgil’s eyes narrowed, glistening with a sudden disdain.  “As a matter of fact, why are you marching into here and acting like you’re somehow in charge of this murder?”

“I hardly see anyone else stepping up to the plate,” Logan drawled.  “By which I mean a metaphorical baseball plate, not a literal plate like the one smashed on the ground over there.”

Sure enough, a crystalline platter lay in pieces a few feet from the shelves of liquor.  Virgil glanced at it briefly before reluctantly muttering a “fine” and holding their hands out for inspection.

Virgil’s hands were broad and long, much like the person themself.  Their nails were short and blunt, clipped with ruthless efficiency. Their skin was almost as dark as Viper’s, with no scrapes or cuts whatsoever.  Logan experimentally ran a finger down their palm, revealing calluses.

“Thank you, Mx. Avery.”  He stepped back and nodded.  “Please, then, get everyone to safety.”

When they left, Logan bend down over the body, mind racing.  This was his only chance to be truly alone with it before the police came and messed everything up, as they were prone to do.  Bruises around the neck - likely cause of death: strangulation. Upon closer inspection, tiny red marks also littered the skin around the strangulation line.  The handkerchief was missing, but nothing else, not the expensive rings or watch. Fingernails clean and manicured. A double overhand knot held Remy’s hands together.

Briefly, Logan brushed his fingers over the golden rope before backing up and taking in the room as a whole.

Ignoring the dead man and the shattered plate, it looked the same as it had before.  He prowled the perimeter, scrutinizing the thick carpet, but there were no footprints crushed against the deep red.  It was clean, luxurious, and devoid of all personality.

 

The parlor was empty when Logan emerged into the main room.  He realized that _Ego_ was round, hallways arching out like the spindles of a wheel.  Around and around with no end. The long, dark hallway that led to Remy’s box wrapped around the main room, offering multiple boxes unique views of the stage.  Behind that were the unknown back rooms.

As he passed through, he flicked back the curtain he had seen Virgil slip behind earlier.  As he suspected - a door. He jimmied the handle, but it didn’t yield.

It was eerie, how silent the club could be.  Drained of the patrons and the pomp, Logan could see the spots where the carpet was worn thin.  Ghosts of voices hung in the air, oppressive in their absence. He flicked off the lights as he left, stepping into the entryway.  

“Logan!”  Roman rushed up to him, eyes wide, and clung to the front of his shirt, fingers curling in the soft cotton.  “What’s wrong? Virgil told everyone they had to leave and wouldn’t explain why.”

Logan just looked down at him, expression unreadable.  “Tell me where you were,” he said in lieu of a response, “during the middle of the show.”  Roman looked startled, so he softened his voice, stepping closer. “I was worried. I went looking for you.”

Roman demurred, blinking those long, thick eyelashes.  “Technical difficulties, just like Patton said. I had a little trouble with my costume.”

Logan nodded slightly, expression thawing the smallest bit.  He took Roman by the arm and led him to the side, the wall to their backs providing the guise of privacy.  “Mx. Avery and I found Mr. Salem dead in his booth.”

Roman's eyes widened, huge and frightened against his suddenly pale face.  “What?”

Logan just took his hand in response, toying with Roman’s long, thin fingers, inspecting his palm.  Roman swallowed, shuffling closer, almost as if he was seeking comfort.  Logan barely suppressed a snort.  Mr. Torres clearly had the wrong idea about him.

“No rope burn,” Logan noted.

Roman’s brow furrowed.  “Mr. S- _Logan,_ please, you’re frightening me.  What is going on? What happened to Mr. Salem?”

“He was killed.”

Roman’s breath caught in his throat, face slackening.  “O-oh.” He was silent for a moment, breathing erratically.  “Who… who did it?”

“That can’t be determined yet.”  Logan squeezed his hand briefly before releasing.  “I have a few ideas, however.”

“He was an important guy,” Roman said, almost to himself.  “He had connections everywhere. It could be anyone.”

“I’ve got a list, at least.”  Virgil, Patton at their side, suddenly appeared, the aforementioned list clutched in their hand.  “I managed to nab everyone before they left.”

Logan took the paper with a murmur of thanks.

“Virgil told me everything.”  Patton Parker, pale and trembling, couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the floor.  “I… I already called the police. They should be here soon.”

“Pat, do you need a chair?”  Roman clasped a hand on his shoulder.  “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Don’t you worry about me, kiddo.”  He flashed an empty, practiced smile.  “It’s just…” The sparkling smile faltered, then collapsed entirely, stray diamonds falling to the Earth.  “It’s hard to believe.” He laughed bitterly, corners of his eyes misting. “I saw him just about every day for seven years, and now… I'm never going to see him again.”

“Yes, that is typically how death works.” Logan frowned.  “Is this news to you?”

Roman shot him a glare, and he raised his hands defensively.

“Merely stating a point.”

Patton deflected with another shaking smile.  “It’s not me we should be fussing over right now.”  He tilted his head towards the small, huddled figure, almost obscured by the shadows and décor.

Viper Salem, their only other companion in the entryway, sat on the floor, looking as if she had no idea how she had gotten there.  Still as a statue, she stared at her hands - no, her wedding ring - with empty eyes.

Logan made to approach her, but Patton laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “Maybe… maybe let her be for a little, kiddo. This has gotta be hard on her.”

“I’ll get her home,” Roman volunteered.  A tentative smile, intended to be wry but only coming across as shaken, crossed his face.  “It’s probably best if both of us leave before the bulls show up.”

Logan blinked, wondering why on Earth farm animals would be appearing, but Roman slipped away before he could ask.  He approached Viper slowly, like a frightened animal, and murmured something to her in that soft, thrilling voice of his that made her laugh, a low, bitter sound.

Roman offered his arm, and she took it with a shaking hand, leaning heavily against him as the two of them shuffled out into the dead of the night.

“Patton and I will stay with you,” Virgil offered, then paused, gaze settling on the club’s owner.  “If that’s okay with you, Pat?”

Logan was very well aware that he was rather inept emotionally.  He was terrible at reading social cues, had gotten socked in the jaw more than once for running his mouth when he really shouldn’t have, and didn’t give a damn what the men he fell into bed with felt, other than a want for more.  Yet still, despite all this, the instant Patton Parker’s name drifted from Virgil Avery’s lips - softly, reverently, warmly - Logan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt Mx. Avery was absolutely, helplessly in love.

Interesting.

“Good idea, Virge.”  Patton laid a hand on their forearm and squeezed briefly.  What with the way his gray eyes shined back at Virgil, it was just possible Mx. Avery's attentions were required.

Logan caught Patton’s hand on the rebound, scrutinizing his bare palm.  Nothing.

“What was that, kiddo?”  Patton hastily retracted his hand, half-cradling it as he blinked in bewilderment.

“He did it to me too.”  Virgil quirked an eyebrow, an edge of mischief taking them over.  “Maybe he’s just looking for help. Someone’s gotta give him a _hand,_ after all.”

Patton lit up like a struck match, a bright, painful burst that lingered until you just couldn’t hold on anymore.  

“There’s a pun there, but I just can’t put my _finger_ on it.”

Logan groaned. “I’m indicting you both for murder.”  Dourly, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Framing you would be literally no issue.”

Thankfully, Virgil and Patton were saved from their untimely jailing by a crisp knock on the door.

“Mr. Sul.”  Two faceless officers in crisply ironed uniforms stood on the other side, glowering strictly as Logan swung the door open.   “You’ll have to come with us.”

“Excellent.”  The private eye swept past them, towards the cop car.  “I have a few ideas. Oh, and be sure someone other than Percy is taking lead for this; he botched the last investigation so terribly-”

“I don’t think you understand, _sir.”_  The officer on the left laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, jarring him to a stop.

Logan tensed.  “Get your hand off of me before I am forced to remove it.”

“Threatening an officer of the law?”  The cop smiled thinly. “Hardly a good start to an arrest.”

“On what grounds?”

“You’ve stood over more than your fair share of bodies.  Just how many them have you put there?”

“None here.”  Yet Logan didn’t do anything more than grit his teeth as the handcuffs, cold and heavy, were slapped around his wrists.

Just before he was pushed into the back seat, he caught a glimpse of the other officer, talking to Virgil and Patton.  Even now, Virgil was standing halfway between the other two, as if they could protect Patton from the whole dark world with nothing more than determination and the power of love.

Logan half hoped they’d get arrested.  Couldn’t idiocy be a charge?

 

The inside of an interrogation room was a familiar enemy.  Same rickety chair, same metal table, same one-way mirror - there was disappointingly little variation.  Logan gazed duly at his reflection, wondering idly who was lurking behind it. No one decent. Santos was a fluke, seen as a glorified secretary despite her calamitous efforts to prove otherwise.  It’d be another dull man, with a hard face and a heart that thought it knew troubles.

Oh, they had no idea.

“This is a waste of everyone’s time,” he said, loudly enough that the microphone they thought he didn’t know about would pick it up.  “Do you truly expect me to aimlessly dwell in here when, even now, I’m sure the crime scene is being corrupted by you fools?”

“Hardly complementary, Mr. Sul.”  The door swung open, and a broad man in a leather jacket stepped through.  The policeman’s movements were languid as he strolled over, as if he were moving through water.   _Chris Xander,_ the gold-plated name tag on his creased shirt read.  “I’m sure you don’t really think so badly of New York’s finest?”

“Of course not,” Logan drawled, eyeing him as the man spun the chair around and straddled it.  “I think much worse.”

Chris smiled in that infuriatingly lazy, slow-motion way of his.  “You’re a regular ball, aren’t you?”

Logan huffed and straightened his tie.  “This is hardly the time for a character analysis, Officer.  There’s a killer out there somewhere, and I intend to catch him.”

“Cocky,” Chris commented.  “It could be anyone.” He shrugged, leafing through the loose papers in the file before him.  “A crazed criminal, a disgruntled employee - those rigs are terribly dangerous. People go missing or worse all the time.”

“And I can’t find out until you stop this ridiculous detainment.”

Chris just flipped another page, easy as he pleased.  “Awful convient you were at the show on the night of the murder, Mr. Sul.”

Logan nodded, crossing his arms.  “I do tend to have a certain knack for finding… exciting situations.”

Chris shook his head, _tisk_ ing disapprovingly.  “There isn’t anything exciting about this, Mr. Sul.  It’s a disaster. Mr. Salem is…”

“Was,” Logan corrected softly.

“Was,” Chris amended, glaring sharp enough to cut, “a rich, powerful man.  He owned oil rigs all up and down the Florida coast.”

“Do try not to bore me with things I already know.”  Logan polished his glasses with the edge of his tie. “I’m more interested in why I’m stuck here.”

“Routine questioning, Mr. Sul.”  Chris flashed the fake, easy smile of a man used to getting his way, simply due to the badge on his hip and the color of his skin.  Logan itched under the force of that smile, gritting his jaw and turning away. “We’re just hoping you can provide us with a few answers.”

“I don't know who did it,” Logan said flatly.  “Not yet.”

Chris drummed his fingers against the table, easy smile fixed into place.  “You might not know who did it, but everyone here knows you could make one hell of a guess, Mr. Sul.”

“I have it narrowed down to a few hypotheses.”  Logan inclined his head. “None, however, I am quite yet willing to share.”

“Why shouldn't you, if you've got nothing to hide?”

“Everyone,” Logan responded mildly, “has something to hide.”

The policeman leaned forward, carrying the stench of stale coffee.  “And you have-?”

Logan smiled complacently.  “My hypothesis, for one thing.”

“You're not exactly painting yourself in the best light here, Mr. Sul.”  Chris loomed over him, lip curled up into a snarl. “Tell us what we want to know, or there isn't one policeman in New York who's going to trust you anymore.”

“It’s been a long time since I burst into tears because a policeman didn’t like me.”  Logan yawned, stretched, and checked his watch. “It's been an excess of four hours, and I've yet to be detained for a crime.  Do you intend on charging me with murder, or just hurting your poor little feelings?”

“I intend on asking you what you were doing hanging around a place with such… fruity people.”  Chris smiled thinly. “A place like that is enough to warrant an arrest all on its own.”

“Yet you have no problem with Mr. Salem’s presence?”  Logan arched an eyebrow. “How will that look for you to be looking into the death of a man who frequented such an establishment?”

“He was married to one hell of a broad.  A bit too dark for me, but fine if you’re into that sort of thing.  What that doesn’t cover, his money will. We’re safe. You’ve got no such luck.”

A hot coal of something like horror settled into Logan’s stomach.

Chris’s smile widened, a predator baring his teeth.  “You wouldn’t want to be accused of anything queer, would you, Mr. Sul.”  It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Logan whispered before he could stop himself.

“Good.”  Chris resumed flipping through the file, as if he hadn't just threatened a fate worse than death.  “Now that were on the same page, why don't you tell me what you know before-”

“Before what?”  The rough screech of the metal chair against the concrete rang out.  The private eye was suddenly on his feet, fear and anger pulling him up.  “Before you alienate the only man who knows the first thing about his case?  The only one who knows who was there tonight? The only one who knows that Mr. Salem had been harassing the night club’s main performer for months?”

The policeman stifled a noise of surprise, eyes wide.

“Didn't know that, did you, Mr. Xander?”  Logan snarled.

Chris recovered from his shock quickly, schooling his face into nonchalance.  “So what? He was allegedly having some fun with a… _performer.”_  His voice dripped red with disdain.  “It doesn’t matter. He could be lying.  You know what? He probably wanted the attention, that little-”

“I’ll rip your tongue out if you even think about finishing that sentence,” Logan said.  His voice was ice-cold, the chill of a barrel pressed against your temple. “Roman - Mr. Torres does not deserve to be slandered.”

The policeman swallowed, hard, and nodded.

“Stay away, and this case will be solved.”  Logan breathed out slowly, straightening his tie and sinking back into his chair.

Chris curled a lip at him, brow stormy.  “It’s in your best interests to cooperate with the police, Mr. Sul.”

“It’s in yours to let me go, Mr. Xanders.”  Logan leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.  He forced away the fear building in his gut. “Your wife eloped with your secretary, by the way.”  He smirked. “I’m sure they made a lovely pair of brides.”

Chris’s face flamed, and he stormed from the room before Logan could even explain his analysis of the pattern of wrinkles on the officer’s shirt, the scent of stale coffee, and the loose papers haphazardly shoved into his file.

 

It was nearly three in the morning when Logan finally sauntered out of the building, hat pulled low to shield his face from the chill that had settled in.  The world was awash in gray and black. All the good things - beautiful and brightly colored - hid in this world.

The fog muffled his vision, turning people into muted shadows against the gray.  The further he wandered from the hub of downtown and towards his own wretched apartment, however, the fewer and fewer shapes he saw trailing around him.  The city was a gnarled old heart, streets crackling out from the beating center like so many vessels and capillaries. The darkness set in the further one wandered from the illusion of safety offered by the streetlights and people.  The shadows were more alive here, in this rotten place that squeezed out half-digested dreams. Here was where Logan lived, where he belonged, in the place where the wicked were tenfold what you could see by the meager daylight.

In fact, one of the wicked was following Logan.

Logan heard the man before he saw him - a simple click.  Freezing at the sharp sound of a gun’s safety being snapped off was second nature at this point.  The street was deserted. No one would bear witness to Logan's murder; no one would see the gray of the night painted red.

“Turn around slowly. No funny stuff.”

Logan did as he was told, facing the silhouette of a man with a long, shapeless trenchcoat and a fedora pulled low over his face.  The barrel of the gun in his hand aimed directly at Logan’s chest. He breathed out slowly.

“This is a warning, Mr. Sul.”

“Oh, I usually don’t get any of those.  How terribly considerate of you.” Logan took a microstep closer.  “I ought to add you to my Christmas card list.”

“I **said,”** the man snapped, then calmed himself as Logan shuffled closer yet again.  “No funny stuff.”

“I’m entirely serious.”  Logan gestured at his chest.  “Necktie.”

“I think you owe my people an apology,” the stranger said.  “Mr. Fontane really was one of our best.”

Logan’s blood ran cold.  “He was it. Mr. Fontane was the head.  That gambling ring is over.”

The man smiled, a cruel and ghastly grin.  “It’s a big city, Mr. Sul. Surely you didn’t really think you could save it yourself?”

“I’m not trying to save a thing, save for myself.”  Another tiny step closer. Just two feet between them now.

The stranger just laughed.  “You’re something, ain’t you?”  His finger tapped against the trigger of the gun, and the smile slid from his face.  “You know what? No.” He cocked the gun. “I think I’ll save myself some trouble and just kill you now.”

That’s when Logan lunged.  

His hand seized around the stranger’s wrist and snapped it up, twisting the gun down as the man cried out sharply.  The finger caught in the trigger crunched as Logan wrenched it at an impossible angle. The stranger, hissing, drove his shoulder into Logan’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.  Logan staggered into the man, arms pressed together as they both grappled for the gun.

Logan’s grip was slipping, the barrel of the gun edging dangerously towards his stomach.  

Two shots echoed through the empty city streets.

Logan staggered back, shaking.  Already, he could feel the slickness of blood, red against the whiteness of his shirt, spreading.

The stranger before him smiled, coldly, cruelly, then collapsed.

Logan kicked the gun away, shoving his fist against the bullet wound in his shoulder.  “It appears your patella has been shattered.” He wiped the back of his mouth with his shirt sleeve, spitting out red.  “You might have some troubles walking to the hospital.”

He touched the brim of his hat ironically, then turned on his heel and walked off into the damp, dark night.

“Stop!”  The stranger called out to him, voice ringing with fear and desperation.  “Please. Please, I need help.”

“How unfortunate.”  Logan’s pace didn’t falter.

“I’ll die out here!  I’ll bleed out before anyone finds me.  Please, I’m begging you.” The man’s voice was fading behind Logan.  “Do you really want my blood on your hands?”

Logan didn’t bother to respond.  He just pressed his hand harder against the bullet hole and kept walking.  His fingers were wet and sticky. There was plenty of blood on his hands; a little more didn’t make a difference.

 

In his apartment, Logan downed a few shots of whisky, dug out the bullet, and patched up his shoulder with practiced, efficient stitches, pouring a bit of the whisky over it afterwards.  It’d leave a scar, but it wasn’t like he was already winning any beauty pageants. His was a cold, cruel elegance.

Finally, after he bound the wound with a roll of cotton, he collapsed, socks and shoes still on, onto his rickety old mattress.  His muscles ached with exhaustion, but he set the alarm clock for eight. Closing his eyes, he let the facts run through his mind.

There was a dead man with countless enemies.

There was a killer on the loose.

There was a criminal ring after him.

There was a man with red in his smile and fire in his eyes waiting for him.

Logan let a small half-smile creep over his face.  Oh, this was going to be _fun._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this up! Thank you all so much for your patience <3
> 
> Also, since someone asked, some diversities of the characters are as follows:  
> Logan - Asian (Korean)  
> Roman - Latino  
> Virgil - Black and nonbinary  
> Viper - Black  
> Picani - Persian and Muslim  
> and absolutely no one is straight :D  
> (except for Chris. they can have him)
> 
> Roast me like my wife and my secretary eloped behind my back if you see a typo


	6. A Roman by any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers:  
> \- period-typical homophobia  
> \- fear of said period-typical homophobia  
> \- drinking
> 
>  
> 
> Also, prepare yourself for a certain [familiar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481223/chapters/30910989) disaster lesbian

Thin, gray sunlight streamed in slants through the open window, crashing against the ringing in Logan’s ears.  Last-night Logan had made the decision to wake up early.

Last-night Logan was an idiot who early-morning Logan would shoot on sight.  Then again… he _had_ been shot.

His entire body groaned in protest as Logan dragged himself out of bed.  Gingerly, he rolled his bandaged right shoulder. White-hot pain ricocheted through him.  He closed his eyes until the spots faded from his vision.

Okay, bad idea.

He stumbled out of bed, blindly grabbing clothes from his small, dingy closet.

Logan pulled on a shirt, wincing as it rubbed against his shoulder.  He opened his eyes, staring at himself in the mirror for a moment. He could've been handsome, could've been elegant and charming and everything he would need to sweep Roman off his feet - if not for the cold, hard anger in his eyes, if not for the viscous slant to his mouth and the cruel set to his jaw, if not for the spider web of scars curling around his chest.

He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs from his terrible, labyrinthine brain, where he kept building new rooms to escape his ghosts.  There were more important things to worry about now.

Picking up the phone, he dialed zero, waiting for the buzz of empty air to give way to a soft, pleasantly familiar voice.  “Operator.”

“Ms. Alvi.”  Logan allowed a hint of warmth to enter his voice.  “A pleasure, as always.”

On the other side of the line, Kaimi Alvi snorted.  “You’re being nice. Did hell freeze over, or do you just want something?”

“Just a few people I need you to contact.”  Logan wedged the phone’s horn in the crook of his shoulder and strained against the cord, nabbing a mug of cold, stale coffee.  Without a second thought, he flicked off the lip of a silver flask and poured in a shot of whisky as he rattled off a list. “Tell them to meet me at _Ego_ in an hour and a half.”

“New case?”  Clattering came from the other end, Kaimi flipping switches and connecting lines.  “Anything interesting?”

“Oh,” Logan chuckled darkly, “you have no idea.”

  


“So” - Logan flung open the doors, coattails flaring around his legs and amber eyes flashing - “which one of you did it?”

Unfortunately, those in attendance - Viper Salem, Roman Torres, Patton Parker, Dorian Arya, and Virgil Avery - looked rather nonplussed by his dramatic entrance.

“Helpful hint to the scientist that programmed you,” Virgil drawled, “most humans say hello at the beginning of a conversation.”

_“Hello,”_ Logan snipped impatiently, striding into the room.  “So, which one of you did it?”

“None of us, as far as I know!” Roman cried, standing and holding out his hands, a perfect picture of supplication.  “Mr. Sul, please, this is ridiculous. You can't seriously think that-”

“Don't tell me what I can and cannot think,” Logan interrupted cooly.  “I've seen enough of the world you ducks have tripped into to know it.”  He slid around the bar, using his teeth to pull the stopper out of a bottle of scotch.  Patton looked vaguely disgruntled, as if mentally running through a list of health code violations.

The heat from yesterday - _only_ yesterday - hadn't drifted off into the great gray yonder.  Instead, it stayed, seeping into the cracks in the sizzling pavement, broiling the buildings and those inside.  The glass started sweating as soon as he poured it.

“And let me tell you what I do know, Mr. Torres: at their smallest components, humans are indistinguishable from forest fires.”  Logan Sul swirled his sweating glass of scotch around idly, watching the ice clink together. “All it takes is the smallest spark to set them off.”  He casually took a sip, amber eyes piercing each member of the assembled group.

Virgil Avery, the paranoid security guard.

Patton Parker, the far too-cheerful nightclub owner.

Roman Torres, the high-strung star.

Viper Salem, the obsessive widow.

Dorian Arya, the mysterious ex-business partner.

“Any singular person is more than capable of being a murderer.”  He set his glass down on the side table with a soft clink, dabbing at his mouth with his handkerchief.  He turned back to the group and smiled viciously, a hunter with his sights set on prey. “And one of you is.”

A beat of stunned, reverent silence.

“Anyone have a phone?”  Dorian yawned. “I’d like to call bullshit.”

Patton was startled into laughter, and Viper, who henceforth had been silently withdrawn, curled up in a red velvet chair, narrowed her eyes and sat up straight, smoothing out her green skirt.  “How dare you,” she said, evenly. Her bold, cruel eyes flashed at Logan, and a snarl crossed her unpainted lips. “My husband is _dead,_ and you come in here, slinging around accusations like judge, jury, and prosecutor?”

“She’s right, Mr. Sul.”  Virgil, leaning against the wall with their arms crossed, tilted their head challengingly.  “Who are you to come in here and act like you can run this joint?”

“This type of work is my life,” Logan said, staring off into the middle distance.  It was a practiced empty stare. Good for staying alert, while still contemplating the meaning of a short and brutal existence.  “If you didn’t kill him, you have nothing to fear. Any individual has no doubt of their own innocence, yet can anyone vouch the same for the person next to them?”

The tension in the air shifted, spreading and hanging thick as suspicious eyes turned from Logan and onto each other.

“No,” Dorian finally said, mismatched gaze never leaving Virgil.  “I don’t suppose I can.”

Logan smiled thinly.  “In that case, you comprehend my perspective.”

“Fine then,” Viper said shortly.  “As…” She swallowed. “As Remy’s widow, I grant you permission to investigate.”

“Unnecessary but appreciated regardless,” Logan drawled.

“Mr. Sul, really!”  Roman burst out. “I still think this is unnecessary.”

“I agree,” Patton chimed in.  “I can’t believe any of us would hurt a poor, innocent guy like that.”

Roman’s jaw tightened, and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Humanity is capable of the worst things you can imagine, Mr. Parker.”  Logan shrugged, taking another pensive sip of his drink and relishing the burn.  After all, he had seen it with his own eyes, seen the-

“Okay, Sam Spade, chill out.”  Virgil arched an eyebrow at him.  “You look like you’re about to start monologuing.”

Logan hastily cut off his internal dialogue about the streets he had seen run red with blood.  “I most certainly was not.”

Patton smiled indulgently.  “Whatever you say, kiddo. I’m not about to go _mono-a-mono_ with you on that _one!”_

Logan thought he could probably bash his own brains out with the cleaning supplies behind the bar, if he really tried.

“I will be conducting private interrogations with each of you individually,” he said, instead of driving the broomstick directly through his skull.  “Mrs. Salem, would you mind?” Logan downed the rest of his drink and opened the door to the main entrance, inclining his head.

“Not at all, Mr. Sul.”  She slung a purse over her shoulder and sashayed through the doorway in a rustle of green taffeta.

“I’d prefer if the rest of you refrained from consorting,” the private eye instructed.  “I’ll be able to tell, trust me.” He almost closed the door, but paused, turning back with a sharp smile.  “Furthermore, don’t fret over locating me for our conference.” His amber eyes gleamed. “I’ll find you.”

  


Only last night, Viper had been curled into a miserable, shocked ball on the floor, not five feet away from where she and the private eye sat in the plush seats of the entryway.  That pitiful creature, however, was a far cry from the dispassionate woman before him. She placed her purse on the floor and pulled out a fountain pen.

“You'll forgive me,” she murmured, “but I go absolutely mad without something to do with my hands.”

“Whatever you like.”  Logan watched with no small interest as she began twirling it nimbly around her hands, faster and faster until it was nearly a blur.

He took a moment to study the woman before him - her clear, dark skin, her restless hands, her bold eyes and sour lips.  She knew it though, knew how he was assessing her. Even as his eyes took her in, calmly and clinically, she was primping and preening and smoothing her face into a cool clay mask.  This was a woman who had lived her entire life on display and was far too used to the golden bird cage.

“Tell me something about Mr. Salem,” Logan said eventually, smoothing his tie.

“I hope to God he’s in heaven,” she sighed, “but I doubt he’d have much fun there.”

Logan fought down a snort, pressing his lips together sternly.  “Do you have a point there, or are you just brushing up on your small talk?”

“My point is that Remy liked to have his fun.”  She bit her lip, jaw working. “He wasn’t terrible, just brazen.  He was headstrong and brash and leapt over the waterfall without checking for rocks at the bottom.  He had a nice six-cylinder Rolls-Royce silver wraith with chromium-plated silver bores and-” She made a small noise in the back of her throat and glanced over at Logan.  “He had a nice car he liked to crash every few months and the money to buy a new one whenever he did.”

Logan couldn’t help a small groan of envy.  “Isn’t it terrible?” he muttered, almost to himself.  “The only ones with money are the ones who shouldn’t have it.”  He snapped out of it, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie.  “Which puts me in mind - did Mr. Salem ever limit your salary?”

Her long, thin fingers twirled that fountain pen around and around her palm, tapping against one side of her hand, then another.  “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

“It’s really quite simple, Mrs-”

“Ms.,” she interrupted sharply, then forced away her tension.  “Have some respect for the dead, Mr. Sul.”

“I’m more concerned with the living, Ms. Salem.”  He leaned back, crossing his legs. “Don’t you stand to inherit all of the late Remy Salem’s money? With his death, it’d be just like” - he pulled out and consulted a small notepad - “‘pennies from heaven’.”

The pen in Viper’s hands twirled, again and again and again.  “What on earth is that, Mr. Sul?”

“The English language is confounding and filled with ridiculous terms.”  He flipped the notepad shut primly, sliding it back into his pocket. “I’m merely attempting to increase my fluency.”

“I see,” she said with a wry quirk of her eyebrow.

“More to the point, where were you during the show?”  Logan steepled his fingers. “You left me as soon as the show started, but when” - he blinked, realizing he didn’t know the extent of Virgil’s openness - “that security guard Avery and I found the late Mr. Salem…”  Logan trailed off meaningfully. “You were nowhere to be found. Strange that you were so excited for the show, yet didn't stay for its duration.”

“Is that unusual, Mr. Sul?”  She huffed, lips turning sourly.  “Perhaps I found a better view elsewhere.”

“Better than a view with your husband, from the luxury of a private box?”

A laugh, faint and tart.  “He was my husband in name and on paper, but nothing more.”  She unscrewed the pen’s cap, gutting it and reassembling it without a single glance.  “If you must know, I was preoccupied at the time with a rather delightful member of the sound crew.”  Her lips curved derisively, hands a blur as they fiddled with that pen - together, apart, together, apart.  “You’d be welcome to confirm it, but I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch her name.”

_Her._  A jolt of fear struck Logan, but he shoved it down.  Things like that… weren’t unusual here. It was fine.  He’d be fine.

“‘Your husband on paper’,” he echoed, instead of instinctively looking around for whatever brute took issue with this place’s preferences.  “Explain that.”

Viper shrugged.  “Remy and I… we weren’t lovers or even friends, really.  More like allies.” She sighed, tapping the edge of the pen against the table.  “It’s a dangerous world out there for people like both of us. His money kept me safe, and, well, he liked other men.”  A wry, bitter smile touched her lips. “As I'm sure you've heard, so do I.”

“His money,” Logan said, leaning back and steepling his fingers, “but not him?”

“No.”  Viper appeared as if she had bitten into a lemon.  “He didn't seem to care all that much what happened to me.”

“Yet you stayed married to him.”

“I’ve never hated a man enough to give his diamonds back.”  Viper smiled, flat. “Will that be all, Mr. Sul?”

Logan rose as she stood, and they stood there a moment, glaring at each other.  “That will be all, Ms. Salem.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” Viper shot as she sashayed out of the room.

“All mine, I assure you,” he retorted, holding the door open for her.

  


Dorian Arya was smoking a cigarette in the back alley when Logan found him, tamed fire dangling from his long, gloved fingers.  “Mr. Sul.”

“Mr. Arya.”  Logan stopped before him, squaring his shoulders.  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow cooly, leaning back against the wall and breathing out a stream of white smoke; it drifted forward idly and then dispersed itself as though it had thought of something much more interesting to do.  “I had no idea you were a gumshoe. So much for a casual drink.”

Logan blinked.  “My shoes are perfectly fine, I assure you.”

Dorian ignored him entirely.  “You found him, didn’t you?” The faint glow of the cigarette in the gloom shone in his mismatched eyes, sharp.  “How did he… how’d it happen?”

“Word travels fast, I see.”  

Dorian simply shrugged, and Logan continued, “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me something to help.”

“I'm sure I don't know anything.”  The cigarette burned down to the quick between his fingers, and he dropped it; the ember sizzled, red-hot, for a moment against the slick black pavement, before he ground it out under the tip of his loafer.

“Regardless, every little thing helps.”  Logan tilted his head as Dorian settled another cigarette between his lips. “Nervous, aren't you?”

“What gave me away?” the suspect drawled sarcastically, “the chain-smoking or the fact that there's a murderer on the loose?”

“The smoking,” Logan said evenly.  “I didn't take you for the type.”

“Bad habit from an old” - Dorian flicked on his lighter, the blaze casting shadows over his features, sharp and uneven in the sudden light - “flame.”

He lit his cigarette and took a long drag before breathing out slowly.  “Do your worst, Mr. Sul.”

“Do you know of anyone who would’ve wanted to hurt Mr. Salem? Any personal enemies?”

Dorian lolled his head back against the brick wall and snorted.  “You want the long list or the short list?”

“The comprehensive one.”

“Everyone under the goddamn sun.”  Dorian took another drag. “The thing with Remy is-”  He cut himself with a sharp clamp of his jaw. “-was that he’s… intoxicating.  Rich and powerful and handsome and everything that makes people jealous.”

“And you were jealous of…”  Logan’s mind whirred, running facts and data against the man before him.  “His money, weren’t you?”

Dorian shrugged.  “Sure. Anyone would be.  He was a glitterati if I’d ever seen one.  But if he was making money, I was making money, so I managed just fine.”

“What was the exact nature of your business relationship?”

Dorian turned to him with a wicked smirk.  “I’ve got a very clever tongue, as I’m _sure_ you’ll get the chance to find out. Remy found himself in scandals; I told everyone it was a bum rap, dragged him out, and got paid. Pure gravy.”

“You’ve made your own fair share of enemies in that line of business, haven’t you?”

The fixer snorted, the promise of grit and blood in the thin line of his smile.  “We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, Mr. Sul. Decency and integrity are fancy words, but they never kept anybody well fed.  And I’ve got quite an appetite.”

_Everything that makes people jealous._  Romance included?

“Were there any romances you competed for, perhaps?”  Logan leaned forward. “An attractive man like you must have-”

“Me? Attractive?”  Dorian snorted. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Sul.”

Logan blinked at him, brow creasing for the briefest of moments.  “I’m sorry?”

Dorian stubbed his cigarette out against the wall, finally pulling away from it and drawing himself up.  He was even taller than Logan. “Brown men don’t turn heads the right way in this world. Surely you know that, Mr. Sul.”

Logan, a picture of Roman flashing though his mind, began to retort, but Dorian cut him off.

“Besides” - he scratched irritably at his cheek, at the eczema patch and the flaking skin - “I have it on good authority I’m not what most men are looking for.”

Logan instinctively tensed, some deep, primal urge of self-preservation quite literally beaten into him revolting.  “Not the sort of thing you admit to casually, Mr. Arya.”

Dorian snorted.  “Oh yes, because after the way you went looking after your Mr. Torres at the show was bupkis.”  A wicked smirk crossed his lips. “You looked about five seconds from the big sleep when he crawled in your lap.”

“He's a… callipygian man.”  Logan crossed his arms, fighting the flush creeping across the bride of his nose.  Were his intentions really so transparent to everyone? He’d have to work on that. “Regardless, I’d hope you have more self-preservation than that.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest,” Dorian drawled, “looking out for me like that.  I promise you, dear Mr. Sul, I know how to handle the bulls.” He grinned wryly.  “Can't you tell what an upright, honest man I am?”

“Lying never works on me,” Logan tisked.  “That’s not the way to win.”

The suspect quirked an eyebrow.  “Is there a way to win, Mr. Sul?”

Logan smirked.  “There’s a way to lose more slowly.”

Dorian laughed and made to clap Logan on the right shoulder, but seemed to think better of it at the last minute, smoothly bringing his hand up to run through his slicked-back hair.

“Anything else, Mr. Sul?”

“Far be it from me to detain you, Mr. Arya.”  The door was halfway open when a soft voice called for Logan to wait.

He turned.  Dorian was a shade in the darkness, face obscured by the shadows and smog that hung over Logan’s city like an unshakable depression.  “You’re going to hear a lot of things about Remy. Probably all of them are true, but I just…” He broke off, muttering in Tamil and shaking his head.  “He wasn’t a… _bad_ person. That’s all.”

“Understood,” Logan said as he closed the door.

  


“I still think this whole thing is ridiculous,” Virgil Avery, their scuffed black boots casually propped up on a coffee table, said flatly, almost refusing to look at Logan.

“Duly noted and promptly disregarded,” Logan deadpanned, settling himself next to Virgil on the couch.

A small snort escaped them, but they quickly muffled the sound and scowled, shifting as far from Logan as they could get.

“Now, tell me, Mx. Avery,” Logan began, swinging his feet up alongside Virgil’s.

“Get your feet off there,” Virgil interrupted, swatting at Logan’s legs.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

Logan looked from his feet to Virgil’s and back again.  “Copying body posture in a subliminal psychological message that I may be trusted?”

“Ruining Patton’s nice, clean table, that’s what.”  Virgil’s arms crossed, long, lean lines of muscle shifting.  “Have some respect.”

“Respect?”  Logan bristled.  “I hardly think the person whose done nothing but insult and degrade me since I set foot in this building has any room to lecture me about respect.”

Virgil’s jaw tightened.  “Maybe I could stand to be nice if you didn’t barge into my home and start throwing wild accusations at my family, upsetting Patton to no end, and whispering who knows what into Roman’s ear!”  They were practically shouting at the end of their rant, dark eyes flashing.

“Your family?”  Logan echoed, brow furrowing.  “Unless you and Ms. Salem are somehow related, I do not see-”

“I’m talking about Roman and Patton, moron,” Virgil snapped.   _“They’re_ my family.”

“That… that’s ridiculous.”  Logan blinked. “You’re not related to them in any way.”

Gesturing broadly, Virgil shook his head.  “They love me, they protect me, they understand me, and I do the same for them.  If family isn’t people you put first, and who put you first, what is it?”

“A biological connection.”  Logan adjusted his glasses. “People no longer needed once you mature.  Those who know you put yourself first, because that’s the only sensible thing to do in this world.  You can either be selfish, or you can be dead.”

Virgil stared at him for a long, long moment.  “I’m not telling you a damn thing, Mr. Sul.” They crossed their arms and leaned back.  “Not because I think anyone did it but some lunatic off the streets, but because I hope you fail.  I hope you can’t find a single thing, I hope you crash and burn, and I hope you rot.” They smiled, vicious.  “Understood?”

“Nothing?”  Logan said, slowly, as his mind raced.  Protective instincts, a hot temper, ridiculous level of loyalty - there was a motive if he’d ever seen one.  “Yet, what of Mr. Salem’s attentions for a certain employee?” Logan arched an eyebrow, tamping down a triumphant smirk as Virgil flinched.

“Who told you about that?” they demanded.

“Mr. Torres,” he responded cooly.

“Roman,” they muttered, almost acerbic.  “I fucking told him I would handle it.”

“Did you?”

Virgil leveled him with a venomous glare.  “Not like that, you-” They broke off into angry muttering, gritting their teeth.  “Look,” they finally said, forcing themself to look to the side. “I know this paints me in a bad light, but I was going to try to get Remy to stop.”

Logan tilted his head.  “How?”

“Not by strangling him, that’s for damn sure!” they snapped.  The two stared at each other for a moment before Virgil deflated, relaxing his shoulders and turning their head.  “Sorry, that was… uncalled for.” They sighed, leaning back in the rickety chair. “Look, I didn’t like Remy, and I sure as hell wasn’t happy with what was happening with him, but I didn’t kill him.  I was back stage the whole time. I’m sure you can get a bunch of techies to confirm my story, or whatever.”

“I will,” Logan replied, somewhere between a promise and a threat.

“Fine.”  Virgil lifted their head challengingly, arms crossing tighter.  “We’re done here.”

“If you insist,” Logan accepted, rising and smoothing his shirt.  “It really is quite fascinating to see how enamored you are with Mr. Parker, by the way,” he called over his shoulder.

Logan smiled to himself as he heard them sputtering indignantly behind him.

  


He found Patton standing at the lounge’s bar, idly wiping down the counter, again and again and again, as if he could buff out the scars on the surface with nothing more than elbow grease and determination.  He didn’t even seem aware of his actions, a software program caught inside a endless loop; just bad code that kept repeating.

“Mr. Parker,” he greeted, and Patton started.

“Oh, Mr. Sul!”  Patton pressed a hand to his chest and laughed half-heartedly.  “You startled me there, kiddo. I nearly jumped out of my skin.”  A slow smile spread on his face, and Logan found himself tensing, as if for an oncoming blow.  “I really need to raise the _bar_ when it comes to my attention level.”  He chortled, tapping on the wooden counter.

Logan released a long-suffering sigh and wondered if solving a murder investigation was worth it.  After establishing a rather detailed pros / cons list, he came to the unfortunate conclusion that it was.

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Parker.”  Logan settled onto a bar stool, gesturing at the seat beside him.

“Of course.”  Patton joined him, resting an elbow against the bar and leaning into it. He suddenly seemed tired, face lackluster and eyes heavy.  “Whatever you need, kiddo.”

Logan considered him a long moment.  “How long had you known Mr. Salem?”

“Oh, um…”  Patton blinked, considering it for a moment.  “Must’ve been about seven years. He’s been a regular here almost since I moved here and opened it.”

“You moved here?”  Logan tilted his head.  “Most people try to get out of this city, not the other way around.”

Patton shrugged.  “Well, I miss the sunshine, that’s for sure, but there wasn’t really anything left for me at home.  Besides” - he looked around his club, a glimmer of pride in his gray eyes - “I think I’ve been doing okay.”

“And what was your relationship with Mr. Salem?”  Logan leaned forward. “I’m lead to believe you were friends.”

“No,” Patton sighed, looking regretful.  “Close, but not really.  Remy… he didn’t really like playing with others.  I don’t know why, but he didn’t seem to want any connections with anybody.”  He took off his glasses, rubbing them against the edge of his blue shirt. “I always worried about him.”

Logan’s eyebrows raised of their own accord.  “Even despite his attentions for Mr. Torres?”

Patton slid his glasses back on his nose and blinked.  “Well, of course he liked Roman.” An edge of wry amusement lifted his lips.  “We’d all be out on the streets if Roman didn’t get people to like him.”

“As I comprehend it, he had more… pointed attentions.”  Logan pushed down a curl of jealousy, recalling that hungry silhouette.

“Oh, he wasn’t Roman’s gentleman caller, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Patton corrected gently.  “I mean, I saw Roman go into his box a few times, but never long and only rarely.”

“But what of the roses Roman received?”  Logan demanded. “Aren’t they evidence of intent?”

“Roses?”  Patton, quickly developing whiplash from the conversation’s many turns, tilted his head.  “I mean sure, everyone sends Roman roses. He gets dozens every day” - a smile crossed his face, and Logan frantically searched for another glass of scotch - “but he’s never _thorny_ about it!”

“The ones in his dressing room!”  Logan hissed, devoid of alcohol and good humor.  “I was under the impression Mr. Salem had sent Mr. Torres roses in his dressing room.”

“No,” Patton said slowly, hesitantly.  “Roman… never got roses in his dressing room. Only workers can get back there.”

Logan swallowed, hard.  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Parker.”  He rose abruptly, hands clenched into fists at his side.  “I must be going.”

“Mr. Sul?”  Patton _rose_ in turn, reaching a beseeching hand out.  “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m sure Roman-”

He was cut off by a door slamming shut.

  


Roman looked up, startled, when Logan flung open the door to his dressing room and stormed in, barely registering the small, cosy room littered with bric-a-brac.  There wasn't a single rose in sight.

“Mr. Sul!” the performer cried, standing and laying aside his book.  “What’s wrong?”

“You lied to me,” Logan growled, crowding Roman against the wall and jabbing a finger into his chest.  Roman flinched, crossing his arms protectively over it, and looked up at Logan with wide, scared eyes.

“What?”  His voice tripped and wavered. His pretty red lips trembled, eyes grew liquid with fear, and eyebrows drew together in agitation.  “Mr. Sul - Logan, what’s this about?” Slowly, he unfurled himself, pressing closer to Logan, as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.  “Please, tell me.”

Logan gritted his jaw, looking down at the showman impassively.  “You’re a performer in more than one way, aren’t you, Mr. Torres?”

“Logan, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Roman drew back, huddling into himself. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?”  Logan echoed, eyes flashing.  “What’s wrong is that you had no intention of telling me that Mr. Remy Salem wasn’t truly stalking you!”

Roman froze.  He was the perfect picture of fearful innocence - eyes wide and clear, soft lips parted incredulously, expression open and guileless.  “Wha- what?” He breathed, blinking up at Logan, who simply crossed his arms and squared his stance.

“Logan, I don’t-” Roman reached out, desperately, but Logan stepped back.  Roman held his hand there for a moment, then crumpled, letting it fall back to his side as his shoulders slumped and his head listed to the side.

“Damn.”  Roman sighed, then looked up and smirked lazily.  “What gave me away?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's been a shocking lack of angst and plot twists thus far. That's about to change
> 
> Also, hey, please look up the definition of callipygian. Please. I'm begging you.
> 
> Roast me if you see a typo
> 
> okay, now start screaming


	7. Logan Continues to be Terrible at his Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> minor, vague suicidal thoughts  
> major depressive episode

“A number of things,” Logan said, flexing and unflexing his hands at his sides.  “Really, I'm the worst sort of idiot for not noticing before.”

That lazy, infuriating grin on Roman's face grew.  “You said it, not me.”

Just like that, every ounce of control Logan had managed to scrap together was thrown out the window. “You treacherous, lying siren,” he hissed, staking towards the performer.

“Anyone ever tell you you have the voice of a songbird drowning in tar?”  Roman drawled. He didn't flinch as Logan approached, tilting his head up and quirking an eyebrow.

“You should be more careful, Mr. Torres. One day, you'll wind up in a perilous situation with someone a hell of a lot less forgiving than I,” Logan snarled, amber eyes flashing.

“You be careful, Mr. Sul.”  Roman licked his lips. “Last time someone looked at me like that, we wound up _all_ tangled together.”  He lidded his eyes. “Then again, something tells me you wouldn't mind.”

“Do you enjoy being infuriating?”  Logan demanded.

“Greatly.”  Roman smiled angelically.  “It should be my full time occupation, truly.”

“No, I think your _talents_ for tricking and seducing men are being put to great use here,” Logan spat.

“Mr. Sul, if I was actively trying to seduce you, one of us would be on our knees already.”  He rolled his eyes, softening. “Look, I know this looks like bad business, but it's nowhere near as crummy as you're making it out to be.”

“Oh, really?”  The private eye laughed bitterly, mind sparking and buzzing.  “Let me illustrate for you, Mr. Torres, the specifications of this ‘bad business’.  You had Mr. Salem accused of a false conviction and put a renowned private eye on his case, so obviously you wanted him out of the way somehow.  A scandal, a conviction, a death sentence-”

Roman made a noise of protest, but Logan silenced him with a snarl.

“-you wanted him out of your way.  Why? He was a threat to you somehow.”  Logan pulled back, tugging at his tie and pacing the small dressing room.  “You couldn't have minded his patronage; Mr. Parker himself said you call get paid because your employment is obtaining people's affections.”  A dark shadow crossed over Logan's face. “As I so unwittingly discovered.”

“Logan, please-”  Roman held his hands out beseechingly, but Logan knocked them aside.

“I wasn't finished!”  He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, trying to calm himself.  “As I said, Mr. Salem was a threat to you. It can't be because of your employment here, because any member of the audience could unveil you as a… bent person.  No, he had something else. Something that made him dangerous.”

“Listen, Logan, I’ll explain everything, I swear.”  Roman grabbed onto his arms, looking up at him with those eyes.  “I may have bent the truth, just a little, but Remy wasn’t a good person.”

Damn those eyes.

Large, dark, tragic - Roman really did have the most gorgeous eyes.  Stunners, heartbreakers, humdingers; it was a shame Logan's heart had already been done in long ago.  They shone with sincerity and the threat of tears as Roman gazed at him, lying through his teeth.

The realization that Roman Torres was so terribly different than the man Logan imagined he knew tried to creep up on Logan slowly, but now it pounced, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him to the ground.  The Roman that had swept into Logan's office with a sob story and trembling hands was a mirage in the moral desert of New York City, leaving him stranded. It dissipated into thin air even as Logan's hands desperately reached out.

“Do yourself a favor, Mr. Torres,” Logan sharply cut off the middle of Roman's false refrain, “and shut the hell up. You're just digging yourself in deeper.”

Roman's jaw snapped shut;  he had the audacity to look wounded, heartbreaking eyes looking up balefully.

“I’m hardly an angel, Mr. Sul, but I’m no killer.”

“I’m more worried about what a liar you are, currently.”  Logan tugged at the end of his tie.

A memory sparked.

“You refused to tell your friends who I was when we first met,” Logan hissed, slamming his fist into his palm.  “God damn it, I’m an ignoramus. You fabricated the allegations against Mr. Salem, and you knew Mr. Parker or Mx. Avery could give you away.  You… distracted me. Every time I started to ask about facts or any _evidence_ you had, you just batted those pretty eyelashes, and I fell for it.”

Roman smirked - small and secretive, as if he couldn't help it - as the pieces clicked into place in Logan's head.

“You metaphorically played me like a fiddle,” Logan growled.

“Mr. Sul, please, don't be so callous,” Roman drawled, pulling out a pocket compact and checking his lipstick.  “Fiddles are hard to play. I played you like the cheap kazoo you are.”

Logan’s hand flew of its own accord, smacking the compact out of Roman’s grasp. It shattered.  The fractured pieces gleamed from the floor.

Then, and only then, did Roman look at him with something like fear.  “Careful, Mr. Sul,” he murmured in that low, thrilling voice. He swallowed hard and shrank back, clutching the back of his dressing room chair.  “That’s seven years of bad luck.”

“I doubt mine can get any more rotten.” The private eye sank into the armchair, forcing his clenched hands to relax,   “I didn’t mean to…” He shook his head and adjusted his glasses. “I have the worst sort of temper, sometimes.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”  Roman edged out from behind the chair and perched cautiously beside Logan on the couch.

“But did you hurt Mr. Salem?”

“Of course I didn’t!”   Roman threw up his hands.  “Why would I hire you and then murder him on that same day? I would hope you think more of my intelligence than _that.”_

“Trust me, Mr. Torres,” Logan said darkly, “I’m starting to think more highly of your intelligence than you would like.”

Roman made a small noise, caught somewhere between affronted and pleased.

“Besides, it could be a double bluff.”  Logan waved a hand. “Or a triple or a quadruple.  We have no time to get caught inside of logical lemniscates.  The facts are that, regardless of you bringing me to this case, you still could have proven to be Mr. Salem’s demise.”

“Except I wasn’t!” he insisted again, gesticulating wildly.

Logan leaned back to avoid the flying limbs, reaching out and capturing Roman’s arm.  His touch startled the other man, turning him statue-still.

“Please, Mr. Torres,” Logan growled, “control yourself before I’m forced to do something about it.”

Roman shifted, slowly, unconsciously licking his lips.  Logan's hand, wrapped around Roman's wrist, felt his pulse stutter and jump and _soar._

Well, _there_ was an idea.

“Stop me if you want,” Logan said casually, before sliding his hands under Roman’s legs and lifting him onto the private eye’s lap.

Roman made a small, shocked noise, but didn’t move.  He hovered there, straddling Logan just as he had at that fateful performance yesterday.  Logan pressed two fingers into the side of Roman’s neck. His pulse fluttered under thin, soft skin.

“Are you familiar with a cardiogram?”

The front of Roman’s flat, smooth neck bobbed as he swallowed.  “No.”

“It’s a fascinating idea, truly.”  Logan looked up at Roman with a smirk.  “I’d be happy to go into the details, but something tells me you aren’t in the mindset for a proper, scientific discussion.”

Roman’s expression hardened, so different than that guileless mask he had been toting around.  “Unlike you seem to be, Mr. Sul, I am perfectly capable of separating business” - he pressed dangerously closer, touching their foreheads together - “and pleasure.”

Logan scoffed.  “Brazen words for a man sitting on my lap.”

Long, clever fingers laced together behind Logan’s neck.  “Says the man who put me there.” He smiled wryly. “Do you treat all your suspects like this, or am I exceptionally lucky?”

Logan almost hated him for the way that, even now, he could make Logan smile.  “You’re exceptionally _something,_ that’s for sure.  And, as for luck, well…”  There was a loose curl spiraling down Roman’s cheek.  Logan tucked it behind the performer's ear. “Let’s see how these questions go.”

“I’m all yours.”  Meant to be teasing, dark and breathy instead.

Logan cleared his throat and put as much distance between them as he could.  Considering Roman was literally straddling him, it wasn’t much.

“A cardiogram records the human heartbeat.  We, as humans, are not accustomed to lying-”

Roman released a soft, ironic laugh.

“It’s true.”  Logan shrugged.  “Our brains can become twisted, trained to fabricate falsehoods, but our bodies” - he stroked his thumb, achingly gently over Roman’s pulse point - “have a nasty habit of betraying us.”

“How so?”  Roman fought a shiver.

“If you try lying to me, your heart will start racing,” Logan explained cooly, “your breathing will change, you’ll fidget, and your hands will begin sweating.”

“You sure know how to set the mood.”  Roman grimaced. “Fire away.”

“What color are your eyes?”

Roman gave him a strange look, but Logan didn’t flinch.  “Eyes, Mr. Torres.”

“Brown,” Roman said, rolling them.  “And might I add what a marvelous job you’re doing of focusing on the important details.”

_Ba-bum._

“I’ve got to establish some sort of baseline for your heart,” Logan justified before he could even wonder why he felt the need to.  He cleared his throat, moved on. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

_Ba-bum._

True.

“Tell me something strange about yourself.”

Roman arched an eyebrow, smirked.  “Is this an interrogation or a first date, Mr. Sul?”

“An interrogation, although I’m sure I know your preference.”  Roman’s pulse stuttered, and Logan bit back a triumphant grin. “Something strange.”

Roman was quiet for a moment, thinking, before an ironic grin flickered across his lips.  “My name is actually misspelled on my birth certificate.”

_Ba-bum._

A startled snort escaped Logan.  “Really?”

“Hardly the kind of thing that I’d make up.”  Roman chuckled. “American doctors and Venezuelan baby names don’t mix, I suppose.  Doesn’t really add to my homme fatale persona, does it?”

Logan batted a smile off of his face and refocused.

“How long had you known Remy Salem?”

Roman made a small noise.  “Well, the club opened… seven years ago, and he had gotten an invitation to opening night - Patton thought it’d be good to have a wealthy benefactor - so it must’ve been then.”

_Ba-bum._

“Did he ever seek your attention personally?”

“At the risk of sounding vain, everyone does.”

Logan leveled him a look, and Roman sighed.

“Yes, we had a few… conferences.  Nothing untoward, though.”

_Ba-bum._

“Are you glad he’s dead?”

Roman swallowed hard and averted his eyes.  When he spoke, it was hardly a whisper. “Yes.”

_Ba-bum._

“True.”

They both sat in silence for a moment.

“Did you kill Mr. Salem?”

Roman startled, eyes widening as Logan’s glare darkened.

“No!”

_Ba-bam, babababum._

“Tell me the truth,” Logan growled, pushing their faces closer together.

“I didn’t kill him,” Roman breathed.  “I swear to you I didn’t.”

“Your heart is racing,” Logan said, pressing his fingers deeper into the side of Roman's neck and watching his eyes dilate.  “You're lying.”

Roman shook his head and responded breathlessly.  “Trust me, Mr. Sul. That's not the reason.”

He shifted, and every inch where they were pressed together blazed.  Logan looked at the man before him and realized that Roman could burn him alive.  So easily he could reach out and take Logan however he wanted, and Logan would melt into him, burning like scotch, burning like an old scar, burning like fire.

That would never do.

Logan made to refocus, to ask him about the handkerchief, about who has access to the costumes, but then Roman tilted his head _just so,_ and…

The only way to fight fire is with fire.

Logan dropped his hand down to rest on Roman’s thigh, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.

Roman stiffened.  “What are you doing?”

“Repaying your hospitality.”  Logan smiled. “Do unto others and all that.”

Gritting his jaw, Roman stared defiantly at the private eye.  Logan didn't move, didn't waver. He just rubbed small circles, staring as Roman began to shift and squirm.

Slowly, he began to toy with the edge of Roman's shirt, and Roman bolted off of his lap like a shot.

“Alright, alright, fine!”  Roman exclaimed, warding him off.  “You've made… whatever your point is.”

“More a demonstrative example of what you do to me.”  Logan, unsure if he should feel triumphant, stood.

Roman tilted his head.  “And what do I do to you, Mr. Sul?”

“Too much,” Logan said. “And not enough.”

Roman uncoiled, a coy sort of smile forming.  “Mr. Sul, now, don't be cross-”

“Don’t.”  Logan seized Roman’s arm the second before it wrapped around his shoulders.  “Your alter ego is quite useless now.”

Roman's mouth twisted up in playful disappointment, but the glossy vapidity evaporated from his eyes.  “You can hardly blame a man for trying.”

“I could blame you for a hell of a lot more than trying, if I wanted to.”  Logan dropped Roman’s wrist. “They trust me down at the station.”

Roman stilled, looking at him with those sharp, clever eyes.  “Surely you’re not threatening me, Mr. Sul.”

“It’s not a threat if it’s true.”

“I’m not entirely certain that’s how it works.”   Roman looked at him balefully. “Would it really be so terrible to just trust me a little?”

“Perhaps it would.”  Logan scoffed, eyes blazing.  “You’re nothing more than a pretty face hiding an wicked mind, Mr. Torres.  I don’t trust you worth a damn.”

Roman flushed, red lips curving into a snarl.  “At least I don’t act like a hero for sweeping in and ruining people’s lives, bastard.”

Logan’s hand clenched at his side.

“I’m leaving, Mr. Torres.”  The private eye turned away, shoulders tight.  “I can't stand to look at you right now.” He growled, tugging at the end of his tie.  “I need a drink.”

“You've got a nasty little habit, don't you?”  Roman hissed. “A tendency to go off and get skunked whenever the tiniest bit of emotion clinks up against that whisky-plated armor of yours.”

“You may confer with me about healthy coping habits when you stop hiding everything real about you behind a simpering persona,” Logan snapped.  “Liar.”

“Yes,” Roman said, softly.  “Fine, Mr. Sul. I'm a liar.  I'm rotten all the way through, but so are you.”

Logan smiled thinly.  “The difference is that I don’t pretend to be anything else.”

Roman flinched back, arms crossing protectively over his chest.  “Why didn’t you warn me you’re so cruel?”

“Why didn’t you warn me you intended on driving me mad?”

“Maybe I like the way I can rile you up,”  Roman sniped.

Logan huffed a bitter laugh.  “That you can most certainly do.”  He stalked over to Roman’s dresser, glass crunching under his shoes, and snatched his hat from the edge.  “I’ll be taking this back.”

“Where’d you get the other one?”  Roman eyed it, dropping into his vanity’s chair.

Logan smiled thinly.  “I think of it as compensation from the police station for wasting my valuable time.”

“Oh, so you’re a thief?”  Roman’s lips curled wickedly.  “I knew I was right about you.”

“You know, Mr. Torres,” Logan said conversationally, hands trembling with the urge to clench as he swept his coat around his shoulders.  “I truly believe I might loathe you.”

“Oh, trust me, Mr. Sul.”  Roman leaned back, coquettishly crossing his legs.  “The feeling is quite mutual.”

 

Another night.  Another bottle of whisky.

Picani’s was closed by the time he got there, but Logan kept his own stash.  Hell, he could probably get skunked just from the fumes in his place at this point.  His apartment was a dismal affair, all graying, thin carpets and peeling paint. He had gone through a phase a while back where he took a strip of paint with him everytime he passed by the unused closet of a kitchen.  Logan looked at the stripes now, shades of gray upon shades of gray, like bars across a cell in the clink. The whole place was nearly empty.

His finger idly trailed the rim of his glass as he sat, thinking.  He hadn’t taken a sip yet, but he would need to soon. The worst thoughts always crept in at night.  Enough amber medicine and he could ward off the dreams.

Something wasn’t adding up.  Roman had lied, sure, but there was something more.  Why did he need to get rid of Mr. Salem so badly? Who had Virgil been talking about?  Where was the damn handkerchief? How much did Patton know about? How hadn’t he seen though Roman’s act?  What was the deal with Dorian? Did Viper have anything to do with -

Logan groaned, letting his head thunk down into the cradle of his arms.  A deep breath in. Out. Enough. Categorize.

Logan sat up, straightened his glasses.  He took a long pull of whisky.

At times like this, he wished he was a machine.  One of those slick computers that Mauchley guy had just come out with, maybe.  As much as he wanted to pretend his head was organized, was neat and proper with everything in its place, he couldn’t.

There was a tempest raging in his mind.  Some days it was all he could do to cling to the lifeboat and try to stay afloat.

Logan knocked back the rest of his glass.  The waved abated, just a bit. This here, this bottle in his hand, it made everything quiet.  Just for a moment. It wasn’t good, he knew that. But what else was he supposed to do?

Maybe one of these days he wouldn’t wake up.

Logan staggered to bed and didn’t dream.

 

Roman was sitting in the entryway, lean and beautiful in the late afternoon light.  He didn’t look up as Logan approached, intent on his book. Twelfth Night. Shakespeare.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Torres,” Logan greeted cooly.  “Have you decided to develop a conscience overnight?”

“And one to you, Mr. Sul.”  Roman flashed a snide smile, sliding a bookmark between the pages.  “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure. Have you decided to stop blowing your fuse?  The whole city will lose power at this rate.”

“Oh, and then however would you primp and preen for your audience?’  Logan shot back.

“Quite right.”  Roman rose and took a step forward, lowering his eyes in false modesty.  “I’d hate for that to happen, especially after you were so” - he trailed a hand up and down Logan’s arm - _“entertained_ by the last one.”

They glared at each other.  Logan was unsure if he wanted to punch Roman or kiss him senseless.  Both seemed like viable options.

“Mr. Torres, I know you’re-”

Virgil barged into the room, eyes darker than normal and smudged with worry.  “Have any of you seen Patton?!”

Roman startled, worry furrowing his brow.  “Not today. I assumed he was with you.”

“He isn't.”  Virgil tugged on their hair, tension infecting every line of their body.  “Shit.”

“Placate yourself, Mx. Avery.”  Logan instructed, turning from Roman and towards them.  “If he isn’t here, where else could he be?”

“I don’t know!”  Virgil stressed, jittering with undirected anxiety.  “He’s always here at this time. Opening is in an hour, and he’s supposed to be straightening up and calling everybody ‘kiddo’ and making sure everyone is hydrated and I don’t know where he is and there’s a _murderer_ hanging around and-”

“Virgil.”  Roman’s voice cut through the torrent of words, and the anxious person looked up at their best friend, helpless and pleading.  “It’s going to be okay, Clark Jabb-le.” He padded towards Virgil and wrapped his arms around them, pressing them close until the shaking abided.  “He’s probably having another bad day. I’ll stay here in case he comes, you can to go and look at his apartment. Okay?”

“I’ll come along as well,” Logan volunteered.  A chance to observe and interrogate Virgil and Patton without Roman’s interference?  He couldn’t pass it up.

“It’s none of your business, Sul,” Virgil snapped, pulling away from Roman.  “Would it kill you to leave us alone?”

“Virgil-!” Roman, apparently under the impression that only he could antagonize the private eye, started, but Logan interrupted him.

“I merely meant to offer my assistance.”  The private eye smiled, sharp. “If he isn’t having another bad day, as our lovely Mr. Torres said, and the worst did occur, as I’m sure you fear, wouldn’t it be to your benefit to have a detective by your side?”

Virgil blinked at him.  “I think I hate you.”

Logan lifted an eyebrow.  “Jury’s still out? I’ll have to work harder then.”

“Do the world a favor and can it, Mr. Sul,” Virgil growled.  Roman touched their arm softly, and the worst of Virgil’s tension faded away.

They released a shuddering sigh.  Gritting their teeth, Virgil pressed their forehead into Roman’s shoulder.  “I just… I thought he would tell me if he was having another bad day, and if that’s not it…”

“I know,” Roman murmured, voice thick.  “I know.” He pulled back and fixed his best friend with a firm stare.  “You’re going to check, and everything’s going to be swell, okay?”

Virgil nodded, letting their hands unclench.  “Okay.”

 

“What did he mean by ‘another bad day’?”  Logan demanded as soon as they left the nightclub, Roman anxiously hovering at the entrance.

Virgil shook their head, uncharacteristically, eerily still.  “If I’m right, you’ll see for yourself. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Their walk to the apartment building was silent.  So was the building itself once they arrived. It was a nice enough place, the type for those who, while not distinctly well-off, managed to escape the plague of poverty sickening the city.  Faded wallpaper with oversized flowers hung alongside the stale stench of cigarette smoke.

Virgil seemed to know the way by heart, nodding at the tired-eyed doorman and climbing the stairs until they reached the fifth floor.  

“Patton?”  They lightly rapped at the door of 518.  “It’s Virgil. Is everything okay?”

There was no response from inside.

“Patton,” Virgil called again, softly pleading.  “Pat, please come here. We’re worried about you. _Roman_ is worried about you. He was so scared, Pat. Just let us know you’re okay, Patton-cakes.”

Still, nothing.

“As… _touching_ as this may be” - Logan brushed past Virgil and towards the door - “I believe I have a much more effectual approach.”  He dropped to his knees, sliding a small case out of his trench coat inner pocket.

“Are you…”  Virgil narrowed their eyes.  Their lip curled in distaste.  “Is that something you should know?  I thought you were supposed to be the _good_ guy, Mr. Sul.”

The lock popped open with a satisfying click, and Logan rose to his feet, tucking the lock-picking kit back inside his coat.  “Only when it benefits me, Mx. Avery.” He winked and swung open the door.

Stillness.  The air was frozen in place, thick and cloying.  Nothing stirred, not even sunlight; nothing could get past the thick curtains and tightly drawn blinds.

Virgil tugged at their hair, hissing a swear.  “I hate it when I’m right about this stuff.” They moved swiftly through the stillness, Logan hot on their heels, only stopping when they came to a final door.  “Pat? Padre?” They rapped softly again. “I’m coming in.”

Inside, they found Patton Parker crumpled up on an unmade bed, staring at a wall as blank as his gaze.  “Hey, Kiddo,” he mumbled. “’m sorry. I’ll get up soon.”

Virgil smiled sadly.  “Yeah, I know you will.”  They padded to the bed, sitting on the foot.  “Did something happen?”

“Nothing.”  His words were stilled, harsh, as if each one took the greatest effort imaginable to squeeze out.  “‘M just tired, Virge.”

Virgil swallowed.  “I know, Pat.” They put a gentle hand on Patton’s shoulder.  “I thought you were going to tell me or Ro if you had another bad day.”

“Couldn’t get to the phone.”

Logan hovered in the doorway awkwardly, unsure if he should make his presence known.  Virgil caught his eye and beckoned him over with a slight, reluctant nod.

“Pat, Logan’s here, too. We’re all really glad you’re okay.”  Logan walked like a pallbearer towards the bedside, breath catching in his throat as he met Patton’s eyes.  He knew those eyes, that gaze, that hollowness. He saw it every time he looked in a mirror.

“It’s like all the color’s gone, isn’t it?”  Logan spoke before he could wonder if he should, and Patton stirred the slightest bit.  “Everything is the same, nothing happened, nothing’s different, but the world just turns gray. Nothing seems worth it, and you’re just so, so tired.”

Patton closed his eyes painfully.  “How’d you know?”

“Shell shock.”  Logan hovered his hand over Patton’s but pulled away before they could touch.  “I get gray days, too.” He looked up and locked eyes with Virgil, who was looking at Logan like they’d never seen him before.

“The war?” Patton breathed, and Logan nodded.  “How'd you… how do you get through it?”

He hadn't.  That other world, slick with red and gray and black, where barbed wire cut the sky into strips and trenches ran wet with blood had broken something inside of him.  He had just learned to live with the rattle.

Logan shrugged and thought of red lips curled into a wicked smile.  “Find a bit of color.”

“I lost somebody,” Patton said, words barely carried on faint puffs of air.  “And I just…” He closed his eyes, moisture gathering at their corners. “I miss him so much it feels like I’m gone too.”

“Was he in the war?”  Logan had lost more than a few, including himself.

“No. At home. Some stupid _accident_. We didn’t know what happened until his body washed up.”  A hint of color appeared on his face, anger and grief painting his cheeks red until it was washed away by the gray, and he crumpled down with a sigh.  “I just miss him. A whole lot.”

“I’m sorry.”  Logan stroked his thumb over the back of Patton’s hand.  He didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew what he would’ve liked to hear on the gray days.  “I know what that’s like.”

“Do you?”  Patton's gray eyes were flat in his freckled face.  Logan suddenly realized that he and Patton were broken in all the same places.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry too, Pat.”  Virgil stroked Patton’s dirty blonde hair off of his forehead.  “Do you think you can make it to the club tonight?”

Patton nodded unconvincingly and sighed.  “Just give me a minute.”

“Take your time,” Virgil murmured, leaning down to untie their shoes.  Logan shot them a questioning look, but Virgil just shrugged and crawled into the bed next to Patton, lying above the covers.  “I’ll be here.”

“Just another minute,” Patton said again, eyes already drifting closed.

Virgil hummed comfortingly and smoothed Patton's hair back off of his forehead.  They glanced up at Logan then the door, and he gladly took his cue. Those softer emotions he was so fond of avoiding were running rampant in here.

He loitered in Patton’s living room, flipping through a Macy’s catalog, palm-tree studded postcards from a Christian and a Shea, a note in a child’s careful, rounded letters thanking him for looking after her while her parents were out.  There were winter gloves under a thin layer of dust on a bookshelf, behind a Carson McCullers novel. The entire place was filled with meaningless bric-a-brac, side effects of a life well-settled.

On the coffee table, a picture of Virgil, Patton, and Roman beamed out at him.  He picked it up, gazing blankly at the way their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, how they curled into each other’s sides.

Logan shoved away a stab in his gut.  The three were standing in front of _Ego_ , the club looking significantly less worn than it currently did.  Behind them, a steady swarm of people tricked in through the open doors.  Picking up the picture, Logan squinted.

He recognized that dame.

Half-turned towards the camera, Viper Salem’s profile was clearly visible.  Then man she was walking next to… Logan narrowed his eyes against the graininess of the monochromatic image.  Remy Salem. It had to be. Her hand rested gently on his arm, a paper loosely dangling from his hand.

Still, that wasn’t what interested Logan.

Remy’s other hand was intertwined with a gloved one, belonging to a man in a bowler hat.  Logan smiled thinly.

There was a new thought gracing the bookshelves of the private eye’s mind; it was nascent, floating around him like a great cloud on the cusp of irreversible gravitational collapse, to become, at critical density, as bright and hot and fierce as a new star.

He left the apartment and took the photo with him.

 

He stared at it that night, ruminating as he took long, slow sips straight from a bottle.  He didn’t know what it was, really, but it was cheap, and it was strong, and that was enough for him.

The emptiness of his apartment felt alien after immersion in Patton’s cozy home, but he silenced those thoughts soon enough.

He tried to keep his eyes on the grainy forms of Viper, Remy, and Dorian, but he kept straying towards Roman.  He looked… happy. Real happy.

Had Logan ever seen that smile?  He tried to remember, tried to think past red-painted smirks and masks of sultry innocence and honeyed lies.

He couldn’t.

Logan passed out on the couch and dreamed of red.

 

Virgil Avery was leaning against the cracked brick facade of _Ego,_ far too early the next day.

“Were you waiting on me?”  Logan came to a stop, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Virgil said simply, arms crossed over their chest.

“Well, you must know I’m flattered, but my attentions lie elsewhere,” Logan said dryly.

They smiled thinly.  “Just what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“As a murder suspect,” Logan drawled, “are you _truly_ in the best position to be giving me the shovel talk?”

They pulled away from the brick wall, strolling over to Logan with their hands swinging loosely, easily by their sides.  “I’ve been doing a little thinking, and, while I’m no private eye, I did come up with something pretty interesting.”

They were taller than Logan, standing like that.  Logan fought down the instinct to take a step backwards as Virgil stopped, far too close for comfort.

“Me, Patton, Roman, Ms. Salem… Mr. Arya.  See a connection there?”

“Besides having untested alibis, motive, and means?”  Logan raised his jaw defiantly. “Or is there something else I’m missing, Mx. Avery?”

 _“Someone,_ more like,” Virgil corrected, dark eyes glinting like light off the barrel of a gat.   “I didn’t see you during our… impromptu intermission.”

Logan started.  “I went looking for Roman!”

“Untested alibi,” Virgil replied.

Logan’s amber eyes flashed.  “I just wanted to check if he was okay.”

“Motive,” Virgil shot back.

“Would you stop that!”  Logan snarled, rage firing up like the spark of a match.  He had his arm halfway back before he came into his senses.

Their eyes both moved to Logan’s clenched fist.

“Means,” Virgil said softly.

Logan let his hand drop to his side, suddenly drained and pale.  “What the hell do you want?” He flexed and unflexed his hand at his side, as if to check he was still in control of it.

“To keep my family safe.” Virgil shrugged.  “You want to find out who killed Remy, fine.”  Those dark eyes bored into him. “But if you threaten my family, I’ll be taking you for a ride sometime soon.”

“Oh, that actually sounds rather pleasant,” Logan, confused but game for the sudden shift in conversation, said.  “Where are we going? Is there an open bar?”

Virgil started.  “Uh, what?”

“You said we were going for a ride,” Logan informed him.  “Although I normally avoid getting into cars with people for avoidance of murder and-or kidnapping, I sense this is mandatory.”

“What?”  Virgil blinked.  “No. That doesn’t… It means I’m going to… I don’t know, hurt you.  Or something,” they finished lamely.

Logan squinted his eyes.  “With your car?”

“There is no-!”  Virgil released an exasperated huff.  “Yes. With my car. Whatever.”

“Alright then.”  Logan bobbed his head.  “Threat received.”

They stared at each other for a long, awkward moment.

“I’m going to go inside now,” Logan stated, pointing at the door.

Virgil let their head thunk back against brick wall, sighed.  “Yeah, you do that.”

 

Roman’s soft, smoky voice wrapped around Logan as soon as he stepped inside.  He was singing, voice tripping up and down the scale alongside a piano.

_Do, re, mi, fa, so, la-_

Roman cut off, dismayed just as Logan stepped into the room.  The singer hit the key again, but nothing came out.

“Damn thing’s busted again,” he muttered.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to get it fixed,” Logan responded.

Roman startled, gaze flying up.  He tensed, but when no further comment came, no accusation slung carelessly forward, his shoulders crept back down.  “I gotta find you a bell.”

“And ruin my aura of mystery?”  Logan arched an eyebrow. “Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel.”

The edge of Roman’s perpetually-red lips twitched; it still wasn’t that photo’s unabashed beam.

“Virgil told me what you did,” Roman said.

“Ranted about shell shock to poor, unsuspecting Mr. Parker?”  Logan snorted, dropping down on the piano bench next to Roman. “Yes, grant me a medal of valor.”

Still no smile.  Just an unreadable side-glance.  “Still, it was kind of you.” He huffed out a laugh, nudging Logan.  “Careful, or I just might start getting the wrong impression that you're a halfway good man.”

“Oh, please refrain,” Logan quipped.  “My dismal reputation is all I have left going for me.”  He snorted. “Besides, there are no good men. There isn't anyone you can trust in this world.”

Roman shook his head, looking almost disappointed.  “Surely you can't believe that? Humanity is good. People are good, Logan.”

“There is no such thing as a good person.”  Logan clicked his tongue. “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”

“I highly doubt nihilism is what Fitzgerald had in mind,” Roman countered, a small, triumphant smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.

“You're well-read,” Logan admitted begrudgingly.

Roman licked his lips.  Logan wondered if the move was deliberate. Knowing Roman as he was coming to, possibly.  It was alluring, certainly—drew Logan's eyes in a way only a twitch of danger could, in a way that nobody else ever had.

“So are you.”

Logan shrugged.  “I have down-time between cases that needs filled.”

Something in Roman’s face shuttered closed at the reminder of the private eye’s profession.  

“How is the case going?”  he hedged.

“As can be expected,” Logan said tersely.

Roman nodded absently, eyes drifting to the side.  “There really isn’t anyone who knows this place better than me,” he said.  “You know…” Roman hesitated. “I could always help.”

Ten sorts of alarm bells went off in Logan’s head.  He stood abruptly and uttered a short ‘no’ before making to leave.

Roman sat there, stunned for a moment, before chasing after him.  “Please, Mr. Sul.” - he grabbed his arm -  “I want to help.”

“So you can mess up the results?”  Logan arched an eyebrow. “So you can throw me off of your trail?”

“Because this is my _home.”_  Roman's voice trembled precariously, almost on the edge of breaking.  “This place is… it's the only place that I can be myself. I need to protect it.”

Logan stared at him for a long moment.  “I can't trust you.”

Roman swallowed, looking up at him with those dark, tragic eyes.  “You don't have to. What's that expression? ‘Keep your friends close’” - he reached up and smoothed down Logan's collar, hands lingering on his chest - “‘and your enemies closer’.”

Logan captured his hands there, holding onto him.  “And what if I don't know which of the two you're supposed to be, Mr. Torres?”

“Well then” - Roman took one step, then another, then hooked his leg around Logan's - “I suppose you'll have to keep me very close indeed.”

Logan glared down at him, at his dark, tragic, mendacious eyes.  Roman had been right, that time in his dressing room. There was something rotten about both of them.  They weren’t good people.

But that was alright.  Good people didn’t make it long in this world anyway.

Logan ran his thumb across Roman’s pretty, red lips, watching with rapt attention as they parted obligingly.  “Something tells me you like that, Mr. Torres. That you enjoy being the center of attention.”

Roman’s dark eyes shone with something like hate and something like longing.  “What’s wrong with liking the way it feels to be wanted?”

“Nothing,” Logan admitted begrudgingly.

“And what’s wrong with liking the way you look at me?”  Roman purred.

Logan clenched his jaw.  “Everything.”

“Well that’s rotten,” Roman sighed, pushing himself away.  “We really could’ve done something about this whole situation then.”  He sauntered off, hips swaying, and cast a coy glance over his shoulder.   “A shame.”

Logan barely had time to mutter “oh for heaven’s-” before his feet were carrying him across the room, and his arms wrapped around the singer’s slim waist, spinning him around to face the private eye.

Roman’s eyes shone up at him, amused.  “I thought so.”

“Do you enjoy doing this to me?”  Logan demanded.

“You have _no_ idea.”

“You know, Mr. Torres,” Logan said, fighting down a pulse of something warm as Roman wrapped his fingers around Logan's tie.  “I think I’m quite growing to loathe you.”

Slowly, easily, Roman grinned.  “Logan, you flirt.”

He licked those red, red lips expectantly, and Logan kissed him.

Which, really, was a terrible decision.  Yet, then Roman melted against him, long, clever fingers wrapping themselves in Logan's hair, and Roman's mouth was hot and insistent, and Logan's skin blazed everywhere they were pressed together, Roman balancing them perfectly on the knife’s edge between too much and not enough.

It was an explosion -  violent and riotous and all-consuming.  The kind that ruins everything in its wake, because Logan was weak then, weak for Roman Torres, weak for what he did to him, weak for the candle, bonfire, _inferno_ blazing in his stomach but then Roman sighed and pressed closer, closer until Logan couldn't even think of anything but heat.  Skin. Pressure. Roman. Roman, Roman, Roman.

_Roman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aliveeeee!
> 
> Finals absolutely murdered me (like Remy, ha) but I'm on break now, so maybe more updates?? Don't hold me to that. Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter! The plot is thicker than Roman at this point, and coming up, we'll dive deeper into Remy's past and see the consequences of Logan's choices.
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, and a world of thanks to my commenters! You all are what pushes me to keep working through the writers block and give me so much inspiration and joy when writing <3
> 
> Roast me if you see a typo, cowards~


	8. Sir, I'm Going to Need You to Stop Making out with the Murder Suspect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.  
> I have nothing to say for myself.
> 
> Tws:  
> \- alcohol overdose  
> \- nihilism and depressive thoughts  
> \- period-typical homophobia  
> \- joking wish to drown  
> \- vague description of sensory overload

“What’d you go and do a thing like that for?”  Roman asked once they finally pulled back. His tone was flippant; his expression was anything but.

It took Logan a while to find himself again.  Roman Torres, with his pretty red lips and shining brown eyes, had robbed him of any coherent thought.   “I’ve been wondering if I’d like it.”

“What’s the verdict?”  Roman draped his arms around Logan's shoulders.

Logan put a hand on the curve of his waist, pulling him closer.  “I don’t know yet.”

“I suppose I'll have to fix that.”

“If you must.”

Roman tasted sweet and heady, like a draught of honeyed bourbon.  Logan's brain – always churning with that infernal sea, always threatening to drown him – went quiet, still.  Roman pulled Logan’s lower lip into his mouth, nipping it lightly.

Logan pulled back, slowly, and toyed with the fine hairs at the nape of Roman’s neck.  “It’s even better when you help.”

Roman twisted a smile up at him.  “I'd say that counts as a glowing review.”  His grin took on a mischievous edge. “And I must add, that shade _really_ works for you.”

Logan blinked.  He turned to the wall of one-way mirrors and snorted.  “I think I'll leave the finer points of makeup to your expertise.”

He wiped at his mouth with a handkerchief, smearing off the worst of the lipstick.

Roman pouted.  “Oh, I thought you looked quite lovely.”

“First time I’ve been accused of that.”

Logan smoothed back his hair when a sinking feeling hit him, a hot coal settling somewhere in his chest.  He hadn’t kissed anyone like that since… 

He cleared his throat.

“Do you want a drink?”  He crossed the room towards the low-slung bar before Roman could answer.  “I want a drink. Let me make us some drinks.”

“Don’t bother,” Roman said.  “Patton always locks the liquor cabinet.”

“Don’t worry.”  Logan pulled a small kit out of his pocket.  “I always bring my own keys.”

Roman cautiously perched on a bar stool, watching Logan focus on the lock.  Within seconds, he had it popped open. Wrapping his fingers around the closest bottle, he rummaged for glasses.

“First you can kiss like that, and now you can pick locks?”  Roman accepted the glass Logan slid his way. “Mr. Sul, I dare say you’re a regular hooligan.”

The faintest hint of laughter escaped Logan.  “I’ve been called worse.”

Roman cast a sidelong glance at him but said nothing more, not until the far doors swung open to reveal Patton and Virgil.

Virgil had held the door open for Patton, and the look of tenderness they cast after him was almost enough to make Logan’s stomach churn.

“Roman, Logan.”  Patton’s mouth twisted in disapproval.  “It’s still morning.”

“It’s five o’clock where I’m from.”  Logan raised his glass in a toast before downing the rest of it.  “Geonbae.”

“Well, down where I’m from, it’s still morning.”  Patton tartly took the glass from Roman, who looked vaguely abashed.

“Where is that, anyway?”  Logan tilted his head at the club’s owner.

“West Hills,” Virgil interrupted.  “The good ol’ sunshine state.” Their voice dripped with venom as they took in Logan.  “Now, mind telling us what you're doing here, Sul? Or are you just”- they mockingly touched their thumb to the corner of their mouth- “harassing the staff.”

“Virgil!”  Roman hissed, coloring.

Logan touched his fingers to his lips.  When he pulled away, a smear of lipstick remained.

Virgil smirked.  “Glad to see workplace professionalism isn't dead.”

“Well,” Logan retorted, looking from Virgil to Patton and back again.  “I'm sure you'd know all about that.”

Virgil's lips curled.  They stepped forward, shoulders squared, only to be stopped by Patton's gentle hand on their arm.

“Virge made a good point.”  He flashed a smile up at them before turning it on Logan.  “Did you need something, Lo? Anything we can help with?”

Logan blinked.  Right. Murder investigation.  He didn't come here to drink scotch and neck with Roman Torres.

That was just an added bonus.

“I was hoping to talk to Mr. Arya.”  He had a few questions for the snake of a man.  “I assumed someone here would be able to get into contact with him.”

Roman and Virgil were having a silent conversation, made entirely of twitching eyebrows and narrowed eyes.  Neither of them seemed satisfied with the conclusion.

Patton nodded.  “I'll ring him up and get his address.”

He padded off, and the other three were left to stew in silence, trading suspicious glances and uncomfortable grimaces.

 

“Mr. Sul.”  Dorian Arya lounged in the door frame of his apartment on the high side of the city. He crossed his arms, brandishing a smile.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Patton had made all due haste in getting the address, and, after a trip through the concrete, labyrinthian streets of upper manhattan, Logan found the joint.

“Business, not pleasure.”  Logan stood stiffly while Dorian casually took a drag of his cigarette, mismatched eyes unblinking.  “Are you going to invite me in?”

“Far be it from me to be a bad host to the man coming over uninvited,” Dorian drawled, slithering out of the way.  Mockingly, he swept a hand inside.  “Attakaiya varavēṟpu; attakaiya piriyāviṭai,” he welcomed at odds with his hooded eyes.

The apartment was nice enough.  Clean. If you ignored the haze of smouldering cigarettes and smell of smoke, it could almost be called pristine.  No clutter on the low-slung coffee table; no unwashed dishes sitting in the sink; no magazines junking up the unmarred marble countertops of the small, tidy kitchen.

“Have a seat.”  Dorian gestured to the gray couch.  “I’ll make us a drink.”

Logan perked up.  “What do you have?”

Dorian’s voice drifted out of the kitchen, droll.  “Tea.”

Logan huffed and strode over to the living room, scanning the area as he sat.  it was almost unsettling, how spartan the space was, as if nothing in it had really ever been used or -

Something slithered over Logan’s foot.

He yelped, scrambling to fling himself up on the couch, staring down with wide eyes.

“I see you’ve met Amoli,” Dorian drawled, mouth flirting with amusement.  He lounged against the doorway, a mug of tea in each hand. “Looks like she likes you.”

“I regret to inform her that the feelings are not mutual.”  Logan sat down, as dignified as he could, while Dorian crossed the room and put the tea mugs down on the coffee table.

He crouched, making soft noises.  “Come on, precious. I promise that nasty detective isn’t going to do anything to you.”

Logan made an affronted huff, but Dorian ignored him in favor of reaching under the couch.  He emerged with a snake, nearly the length of his arm, wrapping itself around his hand. It had coral stripes and large, golden eyes that seemed to be glaring at Logan.

Logan grimaced at her.  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Dorian settled in his seat, the snake coiling around him like a particularly large, angry bracelet.  “So,” he said languidly, crossing his legs. “I take it there's a reason other than my charming company you decided to barge in.”

“There's only one reason I'd associate with you,” Logan shot back.

The edge of his sharp canine gleaming against his lower lip, Dorian smirked.  “I would think Mr. Torres would be taking care of you in that regard, but if you insist…”

Logan rolled his eyes.  “I found out something interesting about you and Mr. Salem.”

“We wore the same suit once,” Dorian bemoaned, a little too quickly.  “Terribly embarrassing, but don't worry, I made him change.”

Silently, Logan withdrew the photograph of his six suspects he had bagged from Patton's apartment.  He threw it down on the table.

Dorian gazed at it impassively.  “How precious,” he deadpanned.

The private eye tapped on the background, where Dorian, Remy, and Viper stood.  He could see the exact moment Dorian’s gaze landed on his past self and Remy’s joined hands.  His mug froze, smirk plastered unnaturally on an immobile facade.

Slowly, he picked it up and examined the picture more closely, eyes softening just the tiniest bit.  “I remember this,” he said. “We were still in a bit of a honeymoon phase at that point.”

“I thought your relationship was strictly professional,” Logan said, perhaps a bit too triumphantly.

Dorian rolled his shoulders, shaking his head.  “Let's call it business with benefits.”

He put the picture back on his coffee table, face down.

Logan frowned. “You mean it was… strictly venereal?”

Dorian stared at him flatly. “We slept together, if that's what you mean.”  He shrugged. “A wife who doesn’t love you, late nights, a bit too much whisky - it was a simple equation.  He could’ve been anyone. It was sex, nothing more.”

“You always have a quick explanation ready, don't you, Mr. Arya?”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow.  “What do you want me to do, learn to stutter?”

“I’d prefer you tell the truth, but I’m beginning to think that’s against your intrinsic nature.”

“Ten points to the gumshoe.”

Logan glanced down at his loafers, tilting his foot to check the sole. “I see no polyisobutylene.”

“Why do you only do that with me?” he muttered, then shook his head.  “Look, I know what you're thinking, but this wasn't a case of the jilted lover.  He didn't do anything to snap my cap-” He shot a look at Logan. “To make me mad, and I'm not prone to senseless homicide.”

“Really?”  Logan said, tilting his head.  “Not even if I told you I know for a fact he was sleeping with someone else at _E_ _go?”_

“Tell me something I don't know.”  Dorian’s expression didn't shift. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn if Remy was sleeping with someone else.  He slept with… a lot of people.” A wry smile lifted his mouth. “If I was that jealous, I’d off them instead, wouldn't I?”

“You didn’t harbor any” - Logan gestured vaguely - “affections for him?”

Dorian snorted.  “Remy wasn’t the sort of man you fall in love with.  He had a mouth that worried you until you knew him and then it worried you more.”  He took a long drag of his cigarette.  “Besides, we aren’t the sort built for romance.”

Logan started.  “We?”

Drolly, Dorian waved a hand.  “Our sort. All the people at Mr. Parker’s precious little night club.”

“That can’t be right,” Logan protested automatically.  “Statistically, with the high population of the queer community, there must be at least-”

“Name one,” Dorian demanded, shifting forward to rest his elbows onto his knees.  Amoli slithered into a new position around his arms, restless.  “Name one person like us you know who’s been happy.”

“I don’t… I…”  Logan floundered, casting about before his mind settled.  “I knew one. First case I ever worked. He was happy, I know it.”

 _"Was,"_  Dorian repeated, a wry twist to his mouth.  “Tell me, Sul, what happened to him?”

Logan could almost smell the tang of brine in the air, the sharp stench of oil, the bright scent of blood.   “He died.”

His responding smile wasn’t victorious.  “I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” Dorian hissed.  “There’s never been one. People like us don’t get happy endings, and the sooner you let go of all of this, the sooner you realize that what happened to Remy is just what happens to us, the better off you’ll be.”

“That just doesn't make sense, though,” Logan countered, fighting down the strange squeezing in his chest.  He’d thought those sorts of things himself, but it was different, somehow, to hear them aloud from someone else.

Logan was right about most things.  He didn’t always want to be right about some things.

“That nightclub was full of our sort.  If it was a hate-motivated crime, why would he, specifically, be targeted?”

“Because he was better known than anyone else there,” Dorian stated.  “People in my line of work get angry with each other for the littlest things.  Can't stand anyone richer than them, can't stand anyone more influential than them, can't stand anyone handsomer than them.”  

He slithered forward, eyes boring into Logan's.  

“Now imagine someone who's all three also turns out to be something illegal, something you find immoral, something you're afraid of.”

Logan leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.  “So that's what you think it was?”

Dorian worked his jaw, idly scratching at his eczema patch.  “I think there's a lot of twisted people out there,” he said, finally.  “And, through business, I've met more than m1`y fair share.” His mouth twisted into a smirk.  “Then again, they also met me.”

“They did,” Logan hedged, “and I take it many didn't cope well with dealing with someone who isn't white.”

“Which is exactly why I needed Remy,” Dorian countered.  “Most of our associates couldn't pick me out of a crowd of two, but Remy…”  He cut himself off, the edge of a fond smile touching his lips. “Rem was impossible to ignore.”

Logan's eyes darkened.  “I'm beginning to understand that, yes.”

He rose without prelude, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt.  “Well, this has been most informative. Thank you very much, Mr. Arya.”

Rising in turn, Dorian regarded him with something just short of bemusement.  “So glad you enjoyed your tea.”  

The untouched mugs nestled quietly on the table.

“A bit too low in proof count for me,” Logan fired back.

“It seems like you want proof in everything.”  Dorian ran a finger along Amoli’s smooth head.

Logan just barely bit back a smile.  “Why set your sights low?” He adjusted his tie, thinking for a moment before adding: “oh, and stop by _Ego_ tomorrow night. There's something I need all of you for.”

Then, without so much as a touch of his cap, he disappeared out the door in a twirling of his coattails.

Dorian stood, looking after him for a long minute and sighed, sitting back down and scooping up one of the two abandoned cups.

“I don’t suppose you’re thirsty,” he said to Amoli.

 

Logan was getting sick of the darkness.  Night came early to New York City, and it often refused to leave for hours and hours, until the sun’s bright rays beat it back.  It returned. It always did, chasing the light away from its joint and bearing down on the city and all its inhabitants, until they cracked and crumbled under the pressure.

There had been a bottle in his hand just a little bit ago, hadn’t there?  He had bought one. He was a quarter short, so he’d examined the grizzled shop owner.  Then, Logan detailed to him how the man had lived in a small town until about four years ago, he had two children, he was drowning in debt but still had a gambling problem - then the man threw the bottle at him and screamed for Logan to get out.

He had saved two dollars.

_People like us don’t get happy endings._

Why the hell was it so dark in here?

Logan stumbled over to the windows, throwing open the blinds.  Gray light streamed in slants over the dingy white carpet, pooling in dismal puddles on the chipped table.  He stared outside, at the streaks of headlights fading into the horizon and the indistinct black masses of people scuttling to and fro, even at this hour.  Gray and white and black.

There had been amber a minute ago.  Swishing sedately at the bottom of his glass.  He had swallowed it up, but the color hadn’t absorbed into him.  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. Gray shadows under his eyes.  Black hair in disarray. Naturally dark skin gaunt and pale.

Bile burned at the back of Logan’s throat.

_People like us don’t get happy endings._

“It’s not us that’s the problem,” he argued, voice thick and slurred.  “It’s them!” He waved a hand emphatically at the anamorphosis masses outside his window.  His arm caught an edge of a lamp and sent it flying. The bulb smashed against the wall.

It became a little bit darker.

“If they weren’t so damn…”  He had a page in his notebook for this.  “Sheep-headed.” That wasn’t right. Logan pawed through his coat, looking for his notebook, but his thick fingers were larger than usual, clumsy.  “Rabbit-headed…” He muttered, trailing off halfway through his words. Some sort of animal they had on those quaint little farms, far from the smog and darkness of the city.

Now there was a happy ending.  Alone.

Away from everything, everyone.

If he didn’t have anyone, he didn’t have anyone to lose.  No “family” of strangers to hold him back and make him weak.

No smirking red lips.

No chirps of ‘kiddo!’

No dark scowls.

It’d be so much easier if he wasn’t starting to care.

 

Someone was looming above him.

Instinctively, Logan’s fist went flying, but a large, calloused palm stopped him.

“Aren’t you hospitable,” Virgil Avery drawled, letting Logan’s hand drop from their grasp.

Each word hit Logan like a sledgehammer between the eyes, and he groaned, closing his eyes against the blinding light slanting in from the drawn blinds.  “Too loud.”

“Probably because you’re nursing a bottle-ache the size of Texas,” Patton Parker chided, bustling into the room with a steaming mug of what smelled like mint clutched in his hands.  “You’ve slept all day. Didn’t you get _tired_ of it?”

Logan squinted at the window.  “Six?”

“Seven,” Patton corrected, pressing the mug against his lips.

Logan made to jerk his head away, but a stabbing pain forced him to stay, taking a tentative sip of honeyed tea.  It eased his throat, reviving him a bit.

“I thought your tolerance was higher,” Virgil cluckled.  “Or at least your common sense. We found you passed out on the floor.”

“I got worried when you didn’t show up at the club,” Patton explained.

“Apparently it’s just not the same without you making us all miserable.”  Virgil rolled their eyes, and Patton swatted their arm gently.

Logan squinted up at the two of them blearily - Virgil with their arms crossed and a scowl plastered on their face, and Patton with his open, freckled face of concern.  “How the hell did you know where I live?”

“I asked Dorian,” Patton chirped, coaxing him to take another sip of tea.

“That doesn’t answer-”  Logan cut himself off as another wave of nausea hit him.  He leaned over the edge of the bed, but nothing came out.

“You’re super dehydrated, mac,” Virgil clucked, pinching the skin on the back of his hand between their long fingers.  “When’s the last time you drank something that didn’t make you all warm and fuzzy after?”

“I hate you,” Logan muttered, face pressed into his matress.  “Also my name is Logan.”

“You’re going to wreck your kidneys,” they lectured, thumbing at the ruddy coloring on his cheeks.  “Pat, keep him on his side. I don’t want him choking if he throws up again.”

“I can take care of myself,” Logan protested, pushing himself up.  The room spun. He promptly dropped back down.

“That’s what I thought.”  Virgil smirked down at him.  “Drink the tea. If you get hypoglycemic, who’s going to make our lives miserable?”

Sullenly, Logan sipped the cup Patton brought to his lips, glaring daggers.

“You gotta take better care of yourself, kiddo,” Patton chided.  “Virge knows about a ton of medical stuff because they’re so smart, but what if we weren’t here?”

“Why are you here anyway?” Logan snapped back.  “There is no need for you to be. I have attended to my own needs perfectly sufficiently before now, and I can continue to do so.  Last night was a… a fluke.”

They exchanged glances, Patton’s mouth twitching up and Virgil’s eyebrows twitching down.

“You came to check up on me when I needed it,” Patton said, finally.  “I owed you one.”

“Then you can pay me back by absconding.” Ignoring the ringing in his ears, Logan flung himself up and stumbled past them into the kitchen, intent on opening the door to shove them out.

He came up short.

Roman.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Mr. Sul?”  He glanced idly at the detective before continuing dumping a bottle of scotch down the sink.  A row of empty bottles ran down the counter top.

“What, exactly, do you presume you’re doing?”  Logan demanded, hackles rising.

Roman poured the last of the alcohol down the sink.  With a satisfied flourish, he lined the bottle up with the others and turned to face Logan.  “I hired you for a job, Mr. Sul. Last time I checked, drinking yourself into a stupor and sleeping for a full day doesn’t help me.”

“You hired me to investigate a made up stalking claim,” Logan growled.  “And, on top of that, you haven’t paid me a single cent.”

“Semantics.”  Roman waved a hand.  “You have a case, Mr. Sul.”  He stalked up to Logan, smoothing down the wrinkles in his sleep-creased shirt.  “And last I checked, I was going to help you solve it.”

“We never agreed to that.”

“But look.”  Roman gestured to the empty bottles with a beatific smile.  “I’m already helping.”

Logan glared down at him.  Roman met his gaze unflinchingly.

“You’d be doing a much better job of intimidating me if you didn’t look like hell warmed over.”

Logan looked away, a bitter laugh escaping.  “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Mr. Torres.”

Roman smirked.  “I prefer ‘devilishly handsome’, Mr. Sul.”

“Emphasis on the devil,” Logan groused.

“And you’re going to have a _hell_ of a time if you don’t sit down right now, mister.”  Patton appeared in the doorway, hands on his hips.

Logan made a show of flopping down into his sagging couch.  “Happy, Mr. Prohibition?”

Patton beamed.  “Ecstatic.”

Logan decided his sanity was more important than continuing that particular conversational strain.

The other three settled around him - Roman pressed against him on the couch, Patton on his other side, and Virgil sitting on the wobbling coffee table.

Logan shot them a questioning look and they shrugged.

“Listen, life is hard.  And when tomorrow comes, I will be faced with even more challenges.  And I am too overwhelmed to worry about what ‘is’ and ‘is not’ a chair.”  He inked finger quotes in the air. 

Patton sighed.  “Virge, I _was_ feeling good today.”

“It’s an excellent theory if not practice,” Logan conceded.  “I may have to adopt it.”

“Better than whatever you did last night.”  Virgil arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, what did that poor lamp ever do to you?” Roman joked.

The lamp in question was sitting on the rickety side table, patched together with a careful but awkward glue job.

“You… fixed it.”  Logan blinked. 

“Not perfect, but it might dispel some of the doom and gloom in here.”  Patton winked. “It's sure to _brighten_ up your day.”

Logan clenched his jaw, looking away.  Roman placed a hand on his, and Logan couldn’t tell if he was meant to jerk away.

“I didn't mean to break it,” he defended.  “I just… lost a bit of control.”

“Did something happen?”  Patton asked, softly.

This was exactly what he didn’t want.  People in his space, caring for him, looking after him.  It wasn’t… it wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t _want_ it.

Every moment here was a game of russian roulette.  Any longer and there’d be bloodshed.

He let the silence last just a moment too long, feeling the weight of six eyes on him like so many tons of crushing rubble.  His hands flexed and unflexed on his lap as he wrestled with himself.

“I talked to Dorian,” Logan said, eventually.

“That explains it.”  Virgil nodded sagely.  “I’d probably try to drown myself in a bottle after talking to him, too.”

Patton shot them a look.

Logan couldn’t help a huff of laughter.

“He said something, and it just…”  Logan shook his head. “I’d never really thought about it before, but he was right, and I didn’t want him to be.”

“What was it?”  Roman asked, tracing gentle circles on the back of Logan’s hand.

“Not important.”  Logan shied back, suddenly and acutely aware that he was hemmed in on all sides.  Even if it was Roman, the feeling of someone touching him… 

It felt _wrong,_ right now.  Itching and irritating, like a parasite trying to break through his skin.

“He just… managed to figuratively get in my head.”  He shifted away from Roman, accidentally knocking against Patton.  He barely managed to hide a wince as Virgil began speaking.

“Yeah, I get that.”  They tapped their temple.  “It just gets stuck up here, right?  Like the world’s worst record scratch.”

“But you can tell us anything, kiddo.”  Patton rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “We’re here for you, okay?”

Panic rose in Logan’s throat.  His skin was crawling on his bones like it wasn’t put on right.

“Shower.”  Logan stood up, wobbling, and barely avoided toppling into Virgil’s lap.  “Roman said I look like – and I definitely reek so I should most certainly” – he tottered backwards, escaping and babbling as the other three stared after him with wide, bewildered eyes -–“get clean.  Shower. _Very_ hot shower.”  He closed the door to his room in their faces.

He stood there for a long moment then sighed and let this head thunk against the door.  He winced. That had been a bad decision. Rubbing at the aching spot on his already pounding head, he stumbled out of his clothes and stepped into the bathroom.

The water felt good on his fevered, scarred skin - warding off the worst of the pounding in his temples and washing away the ghosts of hands on his skin.  He got like that sometimes, where he couldn’t bear anyone to touch him. It felt like they were leaving markers on him - sticky, uncomfortable brands that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard he rasped a washcloth down his arms.  It didn’t stop until he warded off the deep, primeval panic that came over him like a fog.

They had just been _touching_ him like petty comfort could offer solace for a hurt they didn’t know anything about.  _Staring_ at him, like they expected something from him.  What did they think he was going to do, share his feelings and welcome with open arms the verifiable strangers that had invaded his apartment to baby him?

Fat chance.

Logan didn’t get out until the water ran cold, letting his fog of panic disperse and hoping against hope that they’d be gone when he came out.

He had just wrapped a towel around his waist when Roman opened the door behind Logan.

“Oh, good. You didn’t drown in there.”

Oh, his headache was back.

“I’m beginning to wish I had.”

He thought about shying away almost reflexively, but no.  If Roman saw enough of his scars, he and the others might get scared away.

“Did you need something, Mr. Torres?”  Logan turned around, watching Roman close the door with a soft _click_ and lean against the frame.

“What, I can’t show an adequate amount of concern for someone very near and dear to my heart?”  Roman splayed a hand over his chest, mock-pouting.

“What heart?”  Logan said dryly.

“Insulting me?  Oh, you must be feeling better.”  His dark gaze followed a water drop, running down the length of Logan’s neck and pooling in his collar bone.  “Looking better too.” He licked his red lips.

“Still trying to seduce your way out of everything?”  Logan rolled his eyes, turning to rummage through his closet for clothes.

Roman flashed a wry smile.  “It’s my go-to move.”

“I hope you think highly enough of me by now to comprehend it won’t work.”  Logan pulled on a black shirt.

“I do,” Roman hummed, turning around before Logan could ask.  “But there’s no rule against having fun.”

“Is that what this is for you?”  Logan finished dressing. “Fun?”

“This whole scenario?  No. You? Yes.” Then, before Logan could even begin to figure out how to respond to that, he continued.  “Are you decent?”

“Morally?  Never. In terms of dress?  Yes.”

Roman laughed as he turned around, full and unabashed.  Logan’s breath caught in his throat.

“You should leave it natural sometimes,” Roman mused, stalking forward and combing through his damp hair with his fingers.  “It looks good.”

“I’m not one for aesthetics.”

“You look cross.  Am I not in your good books?”

“If you were,” Logan managed, soft as a promise as he pulled Roman closer, “I’d burn down the study.”

And Roman… finally, Roman _smiled_.  Bright and pure and honest.  He looked just like he had in that photograph.  “Much Ado About Nothing,” Roman said, pleased. “I'm going to have to try much harder to stump you, aren't I?”

And there, with Roman smiling up at him, that bright laughter still ringing in his ears, Logan let himself, just for a moment, be hap-

_People like us don’t get happy endings._

The mantra shot into his mind like a bullet, killing off any sentimentality.  His fingers tightened on Roman’s hips, just a little, and he lowered his head, tightening his jaw.

“You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Logan’s head snapped up, startled.  “What?”

“What… whatever Dorian said.”  Roman blinked, a small crease forming between his eyebrows.  “Your mind is off in space. I can tell.”

“Oh.”  Logan’s shoulders relaxed, and he cleared his throat, wishing he had a tie to adjust.  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“What was it, Logan?”  Roman said, softly. “What’d he say to you?”

The words tumbled from him, helplessly: “That people like us don’t get happy endings.”

Roman paused for a long moment, jeweled eyes taking in Logan’s face.  “You know,” he said, slowly. “We could always get a happy ending, if you decided.”  

Logan could feel Roman's breath against his own lips.  Hot. Tone lower than usual, layered with want.  

“If you just let this whole thing go.  If you just _let_ yourself be happy here.”

Logan snorted.  “One kiss and you think the world is upside down.”

Roman smiled.  “Two kisses.” And he took him by the back of the neck.

 

A banging on the door interrupted them far too soon.

“If you’re done deflowering each other,” Virgil’s voice drifted dryly through,  “the show’s scheduled to start in an hour and a half, and Roman’s absence would probably be noted.”

Roman’s face flamed violently, and he marched over to the door, slamming it open.  “We weren’t doing… _that,”_ he hissed at them.

“We know you weren’t, obviously.”  Patton interrupted, flashing a half-fond, half-exasperated smile at Virgil, who had the decency to look somewhat abashed.  “But we really have to get up and go, Ro. Are we going to see you later, Lo?”

 _Lo._   Logan bit back a snappy retort and gave him a tight-lipped smile.  “Perhaps.”

“I _question_ why you’re such a man of mystery,” Patton giggled, ushering the others to the door.

“Actually.”  Logan impulsively stopped them.  “Mx. Avery, if I could just speak with you for a second.”

They shot Logan a confused look but shrugged.  “Go on,” he told Patton and Roman. “I’ll catch up.”

“Alright…?”  Patton’s concerned gaze bounced between the two of them.  “Is something-”

Logan swung the door closed on the befuddled men and beckoned Virgil further into his apartment.

Virgil reluctantly followed, hackles raised.  “I don’t see what’s so important that you couldn’t have Patton and Roman here.”

“That was an act of personal courtesy, but I’d be happy to call them back.”  Logan’s amber eyes narrowed. “Although, something tells me you wouldn’t like that if you knew what I intend to ask.”

They shifted, almost unconsciously, into a fighting stance.  “Is it that time sensitive? I don’t like letting them walk through this neighborhood alone.”

“This won’t take long,” Logan said, settling himself on the coffee table and smiling at Virgil.  “I’m just curious as to how long you were sleeping with Remy Salem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Remy, I'm not dead!
> 
> There's been a ton going on this summer, and I've posted a few other cool fics (go check them out!), but I'm so happy to be getting back around to writing Kill the Lights. I'm never going to make any promises about prompt updates, especially since the semester starts soon, but rest assured, I'm always working on this little nugget of noir drama, albeit slowly.
> 
> Find the rebloggable version of this chapter [here](https://impatentpending.tumblr.com/post/187155501315/kill-the-lights-ch-8-sir-im-going-to-need)
> 
> Up next: more drama! Tragic backstories! Increasingly obscure classic lit references because I'm pretentious!
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for leaving kudos, bookmarking, and a special shout out to my wonderful commenters. You all are what keep me inspired through writers block, and I treasure every since word you share with me.
> 
> that being said – roast me if you see a typo, COWARDS

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for reading chapter one of my new multi-chapter fic, Kill The Lights! I'm having *way* too much fun writing in the noir-style, and I hope you'll enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoy writing it.  
> The chapter outline is looking like it'll be 16 chapters right now, but honestly who knows; certainly not I.  
> Updates will be sporadic but I just couldn't hold off on posting chapter one any longer.
> 
> So much love to everyone who leaves kudos and ALL THE LOVE to my commenters <3
> 
> Revoke my femme fatale card if you see a typo, cowards


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